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THE IRON STAIR 


A ROMANCE OF DARTMOOR 


BY 


«RITA” 

(MRS. DESMOND HUMPHREYS) ^ 

Author of 

'Calvary,” “Peg the Rake,” “The Ink Slinger,” etc. 








G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

Ube Iftnicfserbocfeer press 

1916 


Copyright, 1916 

BY 

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 


/ 


Dramatic and Kinematograph Rights Reserved by the Author 



MAR 18 1916 


Ube IRnfcftcrbocfter iprcss, Iftew l^orfe 


©CI,A427307 

“Hi!) 


4 


t/ 


“ The warders with their jangling keys 
Opened each listening cell, 

And down the iron stair we tramped 
Each to his separate Hell.” 

The Ballad of Reading Gaol. 




V 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER page 

I. — “I Walked with Other Souls in 

Pain ” i 

11 . — “A Great — or Little Thing?’* . 17 

III. — ‘‘By Each Let This be Heard” . 30 

IV. — ‘‘ A System — and its Principles ” . 44 

V. — ‘‘ His Step Seemed Light and Gay ” 57 

VI. — ‘‘Down the Iron Stair” . 70 

VII. — ‘‘When Love and Life are Fair” . 84 

VIII. — ‘‘A Hiding-Place for Fear” . . 98 

IX. — ‘‘To Help a Brother’s Soul” . iii 
X. — ‘‘To Comfort or Console” . . 122 

XI. — ‘‘As One who Lies and Dreams” . 137 

XII. — ‘‘For Fettered Limbs go Lame” . 149 

XIII. — ‘‘To Feel Another’s Guilt” . .160 

XIV. — ‘‘ Whose Feet Might Not Go Free ” 171 

XV. — ‘‘ And by Each Side a Warder 

Walked” .... 183 

V 


VI 


Contents 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XVI. — “Robbed of its Prey” . , 196 

XVII. — “ The Bitter Lot that Waits for 

Fool and Knave” . . 208 

XVIII. — “ He Does Not Win who Plays 

with Sin ” . . . . 220 

XIX. — “ More Lives than One ” . . 232 

XX. — “The Memory of Dreadful 

Things’" .... 245 

XXL— “ He— IS AT Peace ”... 258 

XXII. — “Whether Laws be Right or 

WHETHER Laws be Wrong” 271 

XXIIL—“ Life’s Iron Chain ” . . .280 

XXIV. — “The Prison and its Prey” . 294 

XXV.— “ A Debt to Pay ” . . . . 307 

XXVI. — “ Through Bars that Hide the 

Stars” . . . - 321 

XXVII. — “ In God’s Sweet World Again ” 333 


THE IRON STAIR 




\ 


THE IRON STAIR 


CHAPTER I 

“l WALKED WITH OTHER SOULS IN PAIN'' 

To say that Aubrey Fitzjohn Derringham was 
bored to death with life and its banalities is to 
say very little for that gentleman's appreciation 
of Fortune's gifts. Yet the fact remains. He 
was bored. He suffered existence rather than 
rejoiced in it. He looked out on the world and 
appraised its values by the light of a dilettante 
experience. He had tasted pleasure warily and 
sipped laborious delights with cautious lips. 
Surface value meant little or nothing to him. He 
wanted to plunge into depths of meaning; to 
pierce the shallows of sensation, to gauge actualities 
and deal with the Day of Reckoning in advance. 
These methods had effectually blunted any pos- 
sibility of enjoyment measured by an accepted 
standard, and life, as the actual important factor 
of happiness, was to him but the treadmill of 
necessity. 


2 


The Iron Stair 


Aubrey was the second son of a highly respect- 
able Peer of recent creation. His elder brother 
was equally respectable and equally keen on doing 
his duty ‘‘in that state of life” to which the Cate- 
chism refers, and which the accident of birth 
renders obligatory, even to the most rebellious of 
its victims. He had married well and suitably, 
provided heirs for the due carrying on of family 
honours, and occasionally made a blundering 
speech in that House so hated by Radicals, and 
beloved by snobs. To Lord Dulcimer the Hon- 
ourable Aubrey Fitzjohn was a source of dire 
unrest and perplexity. It was not what he had 
done but what he might do that was a thorn in the 
flesh of prosperous self-satisfaction. Aubrey was 
thoroughly unorthodox in every sense that word 
represents to prigs, and Puritans. That his life 
owned no open scandals only assured his brother 
that there must be secret and terrible ones hidden 
beneath its careless indifference. He was always 
distrustful of Aubrey; always afraid that some- 
thing quixotic or unorthodox would send its flash- 
light across the path of dull propriety marked out 
as his own pied-ti-terre. When they met at ex- 
clusive clubs, or political dinner parties, the 
contrast between the two brothers was the despair 
and delight of their respective hosts, or hostesses. 
A greater contrast could not well be imagined. 
Both men were friendly and agreeable, and too 
well bred to resort to absolute reprisals, yet there 
was a subtle undercurrent of animosity running 


Souls in Pain 


3 


beneath the surface of every discussion and embit- 
tering every argument. 

Thus matters stood when one April morning the 
Honourable Aubrey Fitzjohn discovered he had 
arrived at the venerable age of thirty. 

It had pleased him to ignore the fact, but the 
morning post, brought up by his valet and facto- 
tum, William Chaffey, aroused him to the fact 
that his relatives were not oblivious of a matter so 
important. There was a brief word of congratula- 
tion from Lord Dulcimer, a letter from his mother, 
and a box of violets gathered in the woods of 
Derringham Chase, and sent to “dear Uncle 
Aubrey” by his twin nieces. 

Added to which Chaffey the imperturbable 
added to his usual respectful greeting the banal 
congratulation suitable to the occasion. ‘ ‘ Thanks, 
but I hoped you’d forgotten,” said Aubrey, ac- 
cepting early tea and the morning papers, after 
a glance at his correspondence. 

“Forgotten, sir, no, sir,” said Chaffey, standing 
respectfully at attention. “ Six years today, sir,” 
he added in a subdued tone. 

Aubrey looked up. “Six years — ^what?” 

“Since you honoured me with your trust, sir, 
and took me into your service. ” 

Aubrey looked at the queer wizened face, the 
short alert figure, the wistful dog-like eyes. “Is 
it — as long?” he asked. 

“It seems short to me, sir. But then I’ve been 
happy. ” 


4 


The Iron Stair 


Queer, ” said his master. I wish anything or 
anybody on the face of this dull old earth could 
give me a chance of such a sensation. ” 

Don’t you ever feel happy, sir? You always 
doin’ a kindness, and that generous with your 
money. It seems extraordinary, if you’ll pardon 
my sayin’ so, sir.” 

“I think you know you can pretty well say 
anything you like to me. Chaff ey, ” said his master. 

^Tord love you, sir! How am I ever goin’ 
to repay you for your trust — the chance you gave 
me!” 

“Well, it’s been well placed. So that’s all 
we need say about it. Any news this morning? ” 

It was one of Chaffey’s duties to skim the cream 
of the morning papers, and then direct his master’s 
attention to any item of interest, sensation, or 
importance. 

“Yes, sir, that — that case will be concluded. 
Judgment today.” 

“Case?” Aubrey yawned, and half closed his 
eyes. “Not Lady Featherstone’s?” 

“No, sir, the one I spoke of, a month or two 
back. That young fellow supposed to have forged 
his uncle’s signature. Perhaps you’ve forgotten ? ’ ’ 

“No. Didn’t we take out one of my own 
cheques and prove how easy it was?” 

Chaffey’s queer eyes glistened. “Yes, sir. 
You trusted me as far as thaL^* 

“It was easy enough. Too easy. I wonder it 
hasn’t been done oftener. Four into forty; just 


Souls in Pain 


5 


the first stroke of the u into r; the second into 
/, the last letter a y. Then the figures — only an o 
after the jour, if there happens to be a space. 
There was a space, I suppose?” 

The man took out a crumpled slip of paper 
from a dirty leather pocket-book. “This is it, sir. 
You threw it into the waste paper basket, and I 
took it out. ” 

“What made you do that?” 

“Curiosity, sir, and also the fact that it was a 
cheque, and — and signed, sir.” 

Aubrey Fitzjohn sat up. “Did I sign it? I 
don't remember ” 

“See for yourself, sir.” 

The man gave him the crumpled paper, and 
then walked across the room to draw the curtains 
and let in the sunlight. These duties accomplished 
he glanced at the occupant of the bed. Aubrey 
was sipping his tea with a preoccupied air. The 
cheque lay on the silk coverlet beside the letters 
and morning papers. 

“Shall I get your bath, sir?” 

“Not yet. It's only eight, isn't it?” 

“Yes, sir. But the Law Courts open at ten, 
sharp, sir.” 

“Law Courts! What have I to do with the 
Law Courts?” 

“You told me always to direct your attention to 
any case of real interest, sir. I venture to do so 
in the present instance.” 

“You mean this — ^forgery?” 


6 


The Iron Stair 


“Yes, sir. Verdict, today.” 

“I wonder if it would interest me. What are 
the facts, as far as you have gathered them?” 

The queer little valet came a step nearer. 
“Concisely, sir, as neat as I can put it, they’re as 
follows. Two brothers, orphans, left to care of a 
rich uncle, wealthy manufacturer. Midlands. 
One goes into the Church. The other, a sort 
of happy-go-lucky, ‘self worst enemy’ chap, idles 
about Manchester. Uncles likes eldest — ^best. 
Bein’ twins, there’s only a matter o’ twenty 
minutes or so majority ” 

“Seniority — is I think the word,” suggested 
Aubrey. 

“Thank you, sir. Yes, sir. It is the word. 
My education is, in a manner o’ speakin’, self- 
made, sir. I beg your leniency.” 

Aubrey nodded. “Taken as read,” he mur- 
mured. 

“Exactly, sir. I’ve some knowledge of Board 
Meetings, sir.” 

“What haven’t you a knowledge of. Chaff ey? 
It would be hard to say. ” 

“A student of life, and of the world, sir, has to 
have his eyes open and use his wits. But to 
resume the story. Eldest boy was the fav’rite al- 
ways, ’cept with the cousin, uncle’s only daughter.” 

“Oh, the inevitable woman!” 

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry I can’t leave her out. 
Seventeen or eighteen. Pretty, and both brothers 
fell in love with her. ” 


Souls in Pain 


7 


“Sounds like popidar fiction for the middle 
classes?” 

“Exactly, sir. It do seem sort of melodramatic. 
But to get on with the interest, sir. There came 
a time in London when the young fellow was rather 
goin^ it a bit, and then followed the usual ‘pull 
up’ for want of funds. Uncle, girl, and young 
feller were in town. Elder brother had just fixed 
up for Holy Orders, so called, and was expecting 
a curacy in a little out of the world parish in 
Devonshire. Before settlin’ down he and the 
family were doin’ a little sight seein’, and stayin’ 
at one of the big London hotels. It was there the 
forgery was committed. Uncle gave the young 
nephew a cheque for four pounds one morning to 
pay a bill. He changed the amount to forty 
pounds. Uncle only got his London Bank book 
twice a year. He had another account in Man- 
chester. Young fellow thought he’d got a clear 
six months ” 

“Wasn’t the cheque crossed?” asked Aubrey. 

“No, sir. Negligent. But even business men 
are that — on occasions. Young feller paid the 
bill, got thirty-six pounds in change of the cheque 
and — is now brought up to answer the charge. 
That’s the case, sir. You’ll be able to hear the 
details better explained in Court, and to follow it 
out, if it interests you. I think it will, sir. ” 

“It seems to interest you. Chaff ey. Do you 
know these people?” 

The man hesitated for a moment. “I can’t say 


8 


The Iron Stair 


I do, sir. Only a case like this has interest for me, 
as you may imagine, sir.” 

‘T can believe it. One question more. What’s 
your opinion? Did the young fellow commit the 
forgery?” 

“Never, sir! I’d swear it!” 

“I wonder how you arrived at that con- 
clusion?” 

“I’ve studied many criminal cases in my time, 
sir, since — since you so generously helped me back 
to a decent life again.” 

“Never mind that. It’s old history. You 
deserved all I did for you. Honest service is hard 
to come by. I’m the envy of all my friends, and 
the despair of all my enemies. They were sure 
I should repent of my bargain. ” 

“Not if I can help it, sir, as there’s a God to 
judge me!” 

“Words — between us are superfluous. Chaff ey.” 

“I know you’ll never hear anything, sir.” 

“Go and get my bath ready, and telephone for 
the car. Ten o’clock you say at the Courts. 
Well, ten minutes ought to do it.” 

“I’ll see that it does, sir.” 

Aubrey Fitzjohn laughed. “Oh — ^you! En- 
dangering your license and my reputation!” 

“I can drive, sir. You’ll allow that?” 

“You certainly can. What is there in point of 
fact you can’t do. Chaff ey? You’re an admirable 
valet, a fair cook, a past master in the art of boot 
cleaning, and the veriest devil of a chauffeur. 


Souls in Pain 


9 


The proverbial ‘handy man’ of Naval records 
should take off his cap to you. ” 

“You’re pleased to overrate my services, sir,” 
said Chaff ey humbly. “I do my poor best. But 
when every duty is a labour of love, manner o’ 
speaking, why there’s no merit in it, not that I can 
see.” 

“ Life is only what our own point of view means 
for us,” observed his master, as he threw aside 
the bedclothes, and slipped out in mauve silk 
pyjamas. He was fond of mauve as an aesthetic 
colour, and deemed it hard that fashion forbade it 
for masculine apparel. He sought compensation 
in his sleeping toilet. Dressing-gown, slippers, 
and pyjamas, all bore hints of this unusual taste. 
Oddly enough it suited him. His clear pale skin 
and light brown hair set off the somewhat trying 
shade, and yet gave no hint of effeminacy. 

When the valet returned from the adjoining 
bathroom he found his master standing before the 
glass with a hair-brush in each hand. His hair 
was in as correct order, as if he were ending instead 
of beginning his toilet, 

Chaffey went up to the bed, collected the letters 
and papers, and placed them on a table. He kept 
one slip of paper in his hand, and glanced from it 
to the figure at the dressing glass. 

“Excuse me, sir,” he said apologetically, “but 
this cheque ” 

“Well?” 

“You’ve left it — with your letters.” 


10 


The Iron Stair 


Aubrey turned round, still holding a brush in 
each hand. 

‘‘You’re very mysterious this morning, Chaff ey. 
I can’t imagine why you’ve preserved that old 
slip of paper. Pitch it into the fire.” 

He turned to the glass again. 

“Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. But — I wanted you 
to be quite sure you had signed it. ” 

“Of course I must have done so. But I can’t 
remember ’ ’ 

“Would you mind looking at it again, sir?” 

The man came nearer, still with that air of 
apology and self-consciousness. Aubrey Fitzjohn 
put down one brush, and turning took the crumpled 
cheque in his fingers. 

“Of course it’s my signature. I could swear 
to it! What I can’t understand is why you’ve 
kept it all this time. ” 

“I kept it, sir, to prove your memory for one 
thing.” 

“My memory!” 

“Yes, sir, and — my honesty for another.” 

“You mean you could have cashed this cheque 
as easily as — well, as this young fellow we are to 
see, has done?” 

“No, sir. I didn’t mean that — exactly. I only 
wanted to convince you that memory isn’t the 
only sense that plays tricks with us. ” 

“You are excelling yourself this morning, 
Chaff ey. I know my service is a liberal educa- 
tion, but I fail to see what your pertinacity 


Souls in Pain 


II 


respecting this cheque has to do with the day’s 
programme.” 

“Nothing, sir, nothing at all. I am conscious 
of a liberty, sir. I crave your pardon. ” 

“All right. Order the car and a — devilled kid- 
ney — it has a legal flavour about it!” 

He turned to the glass again, and put the brush 
in his hand down beside the other. Reflected in 
the mirror he caught sight of the valet’s imperturb- 
able face. It seemed less stolid. There was a 
twist of the queer mouth, a sort of twinkle in the 
eyes. What had come to the man he wondered? 
At the door the valet turned again. 

“I’m sorry, sir. But you were right in your 
doubts. You never did sign that cheque!"' 

His master flashed round on him, more in sur- 
prise than anger. 

“You old villain!” 

“No, sir. It was only a try-on. You said once 
that your signature was absolutely unforgeable. 
I — well it sort o’ put me on my metal, sir, and I 
fished out that cheque when you threw it in the 
waste paper basket, and I said to myself I’ll have a 
try. It took you in, sir. You must allow it took 
you in. ” 

“It certainly did. But what an odd thing to do. 
Let me see — it wasn’t for that sort of thing you had 
two years of His Majesty’s pleasure?” 

“No, sir. I told you — ^burglary. ” 

“Of course.” He laughed with sudden amuse- 
ment. “A great achievement that came to grief, 


12 


The Iron Stair 


and in which I was greatly interested. Well, 
having forged my signature, and taken me in 
rather successfully, you may as well hand back 
that cheque. Temptation is never so near as 
when we put it away from us. ” 

“I hope, sir, as you don’t think I had any 
motive in doing this; only to prove that I could 
do it?” 

I ‘T think you are an estimable valet. Chaff ey, 
and I don’t bother about yoiu* private life, or 
adventures. All the same, I’d like to see that bit 
of paper again.” 

The man brought it and gave it to him. He 
scrutinized it carefully near and at a distance. 
^‘Yes. It would deceive me if I had to swear to 
it. I wonder you didn’t try the experiment on the 
Bank?” 

‘ ‘ Sir ! ” Not injured innocence but genuine hurt 
feeling spoke out in the man’s voice. ‘T hoped — 
I thought this might show you you could trust 
me. It wasn’t a right thing to do, sir, I know, but, 
as an experiment, it sort of interested me. I have 
your own authority for saying that an interest is 
worth the sacrifice of a prejudice. ” 

“Good Lord! Chaff ey, if you’re going to bring 
up my own epigrams as accusers I shall have to 
cry off our bargain! Here, be off! You’re wast- 
ing my time, and I shall never be dressed, and the 
car won’t be here!” 

He tore the cheque in pieces, and turned quickly 
to the bathroom. The man laid out his shaving 


Souls in Pain 


13 


things, and then retired, that queer twisted smile 
still lighting up his face. 

The car drew up at the ugly undignified buildings 
sacred to British judicature, and emblematic of 
British architecture. 

‘*You can garage the car, and go up in the gal- 
lery if you like,” said Aubrey to his chauffeur. 
“If I’m interested I’ll wait till the court rises. 
If not. I’ll go home after lunch. Be here at one 
o’clock.” 

Chaff ey touched his cap, and closed the door. 

Aubrey Derringham sauntered into the great 
central hall and enquired of a policeman as to the 
special court he was seeking. As he turned off to 
the stairway, a bewigged and brisk young barrister 
hurried past. They greeted each other as old 
friends. 

“Who’d have thought of seeing you here!” 
exclaimed Harcourt Cunninghame. “What’s up? 
Not D. C., eh?” 

Aubrey looked injured innocence. “Certainly 
not! The forgery case: Gale and Jessop. I want 
to hear it.” 

“Then you’d better come with me. I’ll get you 
a seat, else you’ll have to pretend you’re a witness, 
or go to the stranger’s gallery. We’re so cramped 
here there’s no room for the lookers-on. ” 

“Who, possibly, might see most of the game,” 
said Aubrey Derringham. 

“No doubt. There never was a case yet that 


14 


The Iron Stair 


someone didn’t believe could have been better 
carried out by somebody else than the special 
somebody who did muddle through with it. 
That’s Rufus Isaacs. He has a big thing on 
today.” 

Aubrey looked at the dark intelligent face and 
wiry frame of the eminent counsel. He passed on, 
with brows knit, and eyes on the ground. His self- 
absorbed aspect spoke of important issues behind 
some of those closed doors. 

The young barrister ushered his friend into 
the Court Room, where the forgery case had been 
tried. The Judge was just coming in. The court 
rose in greeting to his curt nods. Then seats 
were resumed, and a general rustle of papers 
and murmur of voices evidenced the opening of 
business. 

Aubrey glanced at the dock, where the prisoner 
sat between two warders, a pale-faced handsome 
boy about three or four and twenty. From thence 
his eyes wandered to the group sitting near the 
solicitor’s table : a stern-faced stolid man ; a 
slim girl, whose face was partially hidden under a 
large shady hat, and a youth in clerical dress, so 
startlingly like the prisoner that involuntarily 
his eyes turned from one face to the other. The 
resemblance was extraordinary. Aubrey marvelled 
at it as he traced outline, colouring, features, 
height. “The two Dromios,” he muttered to 
himself. “ Groundwork for tragedy here.” 

Then he seated himself on one of the hard 


Souls in Pain 


15 


wooden benches provided for the spectators of 
daily recurring drama. 

It was not his first experience of Law Courts, or 
criminal trials. In a life of boredom he had found 
temporary excitement in such cases as Chaffey 
brought to his notice. That was one of the queer 
valet’s duties, and it provided mutual interest for 
master and man. Rarely was the reformed crim- 
inal’s instinct at fault. A case pronounced by 
him worth hearing was invariably a cause celebre 
before it had run through the first edition of the 
evening papers. Before an hour had passed this 
morning Aubrey Fitzjohn was keenly conscious 
of that human document in the prisoner’s dock. 
A document whose leaves of life were turned by 
relentless hands, whose records were voiced by the 
lash of prejudice inseparable from the traditions 
of prosecution. 

How clever it all was, and how damning to the 
white-faced boy who listened. Aubrey, watching 
closely, caught the flash of an eye, an impetuous 
gesture, spontaneous denial sternly checked. And 
still the pitiless voice went on, and took up its line 
of argument till the net was drawn closer and 
closer round the accused’s helplessness, and the 
listeners confessed it looked more than black for 
him. 

The court rose at the luncheon hour, and Aubrey 
Fitzjohn shared a cutlet and bottle of Bass with 
his barrister friend. He learnt from him a few 
details not given in evidence. He learnt also that 


i6 


The Iron Stair 


the case was a foregone conclusion of “Guilty. 
Circumstance was too strong for the other plea, 
and by the time the loosely strung defence was 
over, Aubrey Fitzjohn knew once more “how 
easily things go wrong” in this delightful world. 

In his own mind he was convinced of the boy’s 
innocence. Certain that he had never forged that 
cheque though the evidence had proved debts, and 
an evening’s escapade in doubtful company, while 
the defence had been unable to explain either facts 
in a satisfactory fashion. 

The jury retired. In fifteeen minutes they had 
decided their verdict, and Aubrey, watching the 
haggard young face thought how cruel a thing 
was Fate. He never took his eyes off the boy. 
He was reading his life, his temptations, his very 
soul. When the sentence was delivered he was 
scarcely surprised at the dramatic episode which 
closed the scene. The boy sprang to his feet, one 
arm upraised to heaven. 

“I am not guilty!'^ 

His voice rang out and over the hushed court 
like a clarion call. It thrilled even callous hearts 
indifferent to the momentous consequences of such 
a verdict. But the warders seized the boy’s arm, 
and hurried him off. The court rose. Barristers 
and solicitors put up their papers, or gave direc- 
tions to their clerks; the reporters collected frag- 
ments of last written words ready for press, and 
Aubrey Derringham heard himself saying — “What 
next?” 


CHAPTER II 


great — OR LITTLE THING? 

What next? 

It was a persistent question. One that haunted 
him through his saunter homewards; that faced 
him in flaunting content bills of late editions; 
that gave him an uncomfortable half-hour at the 
club, and was still clamouring for response as he 
rested in his luxurious quarters in the Albany, 
preparatory to dressing for dinner. 

He was dining out at eight o’clock, in Grosvenor 
Square, and expected to be bored as usual. He 
glanced at the card on his mantelshelf, and then at 
the clock, and wondered why he had accepted the 
invitation. There would be politicians who bored 
you with facts, and lamented a Radical Govern- 
ment largely constituted by their own laziness and 
inefficiency. There would be a strain of that 
Semitic element now forcing its way into every 
channel of society — Finance, Art, and the Press — 
by reason of its money bags. There might be a 
few decent women, but that would depend on 
whether Bridge was or was not the raison d'Ure 


i8 


The Iron Stair 


of the evening. Mrs. Daniel Schnltze’s card 
parties were noted for high play, and society had 
grown a little shy of them since the eclat of a Club 
scandal had brought her name into prominence. 

Aubrey rather liked Bridge, but the women who 
played it in Mrs. Daniel Schultze’s drawing-rooms 
had a rooted objection to losing, and an equal 
objection to paying their losses. He hated to 
remind a woman of a debt. The result of such 
unusual chivalry was disastrous to his purse, and 
trying to his temper. Besides chivalry and gener- 
osity were thrown away on the class of women who 
made Bridge the sole object of existence. It was 
the day of the outsider; the moneyed plutocrat 
of any nationality. Fine feelings were wasted on 
such people. Yet Aubrey Fitzjohn Derringham 
could not divest himself of a certain delicacy and 
generosity of mind and manner even in dealing 
with them. Such traits deserved to be the heritage 
of a descendant of a hundred Earls, instead of the 
hallmark of a New Peerage. 

“If it had been one of them!" he reflected. 
“They’ve done meaner things, wickeder things than 
that poor boy in the dock today. Card sharping 
is as dishonourable as forgery . . . and yet I’ll 
have to grin and smile and put up with pretences 
of ‘forgetfulness’ when there’s a palpable revoke, 
or a subterfuge of shuffling when a ‘no trump’ 
hand is desired.” 

Only that Mrs. Schultze was witty and amusing, 
and gave dinners that put the Marlborough and 


19 


A Great — or Little Thing? 

the Automobile into the shade, he would not have 

accepted her invitation. As it was 

He pressed the button of the bell, and Chaffey 
appeared. He and the car had been sent back 
from the Law Courts at the conclusion of the case. 

‘T want to ask you something, ” said Aubrey, as 
he lit a cigarette. “You waited for the verdict, 
I suppose?” 

“Yes, sir. You were kind enough to ” 

“I know, I know. I saw you were interested. 
Then you heard what that boy called out?” 

“Spontaneous, wasn’t it, sir? Sort o’ made a 
lump come up in one’s throat when they seized 
his arms and hurried him off. ” 

“Dramatic,” said Aubrey, “but not convincing. 
At least I suppose not. What I want to ask you, 
Chaffey, is to — well, to put yourself in that boy’s 
place for the time being. Tell me exactly how 
you felt, when you were hurried off and — away, 
as he was? I want to know what comes next?” 

The man fidgeted nervously at some pretence 
of tidying a scrupulously tidy room. As far as lay 
in his power he had tried to outlive the memory 
of his own downfall and its consequences. That 
the Law still honoured him with undesirable su- 
pervision he knew, and his master knew. The 
magnificent idea of treating a criminal as a “sus- 
pect” in perpetuo is one of the triumphs of legal 
obscurity; an idea worthy of a nation where 
Christianity is the hypocrite’s defence and the 
honest man’s despair. Chaffey owed his quixotic 


20 


The Iron Stair 


master a deeper debt than even his dog-like fidelity 
acknowledged. It had been possible to hold up his 
head among honest men, and work once more in 
an atmosphere of trust and confidence. 

The question now put threw him off his balance 
for a moment. There lay so sharp a sting in its 
demand ; so painful a memory behind its answer. 

^‘I’ll try to go back, sir. It’s all a bit — a bit 
confused, so to say. One isn’t quite oneself as you 
may suppose, sir. There’s been the waiting, and 
the suspense, and the worrying of lawyers, and 
the feeling that you’re not believed, no matter 
whether you’re innocent or not. ” 

“That must be the hard part of it,” said Aubrey. 

“No, sir. There’s worse than that. It’s the — 
degradation, sir. The feeling that you’re treated 
as a mere brute beast; no sense; no feelings, no 
decent instincts. That’s what makes criminals of 
us, sir, ninety-nine times out of every hundred. 

. . . But you want to know how it’s going on 
with young Gale — now?'" 

Aubrey nodded. 

“He’ll be taken from the court in the van, sir. 
To one of the nearer prisons, temporary. Then 
there’s the stripping and searching and photo- 
graphing and impressioning, and his first night in 
the cells. Then he may be taken on to Wormwood 
Scrubs, or one of the large convict prisons. I 
can’t say which. There he’ll have to work out his 
sentence. It’s a hard one for a first offence, sir, 
but it struck me there was a sort o’ — o’ anymus, 


A Great — or Little Thing? 21 

don’t they call it? A dead set against him from 
the first.” 

“It’s rather hard, I suppose? That — first 
night in the cells and afterwards — the waking?” 

“It is, sir. You feel desperate. At war with 
the whole world, so to say. When you’re con- 
demned — ^wrongful, I don’t know what it must be. 
Hell, sir. I’d say, if you’ll excuse the langwidge. ” 

“We make our own hells. Chaff ey, and pretty 
hot ones sometimes.” 

“I’m not religious, as you know, sir, an’ what 
I’ve seen and heard hasn’t ’elped to make me so. 
But those as sins don’t want much after punish- 
ment I’d say, if so be as they’ve had a taste of 
prison life here.” 

“That boy — I can’t forget his face, somehow. 
Do you think his sentence will do him much harm, 
morally speaking?” 

“He’ll never be the same again, sir. The prison 
taint don’t wash off. Pitch is soapsuds to it! 
No, it sticks and sticks, and burns and burns, and 
you don’t ever feel yourself clean and self-respect- 
ing again!” 

“Never, Chaff ey? I hoped ” 

“I know your goodness, sir. I know what 
you’ve done for me. Times I do feel that it’s all 
been a bad dream, and that I am what you’re 
kind enough to think me, sir. But then, it’ll 
come back. It’s bound to come back. Pitch, 
sir, that’s what it is. Sticks so fast, and so close, 
you’re bound to know it’s there!” 


22 


The Iron Stair 


Aubrey was silent, and the man went quietly 
out of the room. “Poor beggar,” thought his 
master, “I suppose he’ll never really forget!” 

He turned to the low bookshelf which ran along 
one side of the wall, and took out a volume, and 
opened it. It treated of English prison life in the 
old convict days when foetid hulks and Botany 
Bay spelt the doom of manhood however justly 
punished. 

Aubrey had read it before. He read portions 
of it again on this May evening, while the sun 
sank low in the west, and the life of the Great 
City rolled on and on like waves of a restless sea. 
In his quiet retreat no sound reached his ears save 
the occasional hoot of a motor, or the faint hum 
of Piccadilly traffic. The season was in full swing, 
and the fashionable world was trying to cheat 
itself once more into the belief that pleasime is an 
inventive goddess. 

Aubrey put back the volume in its place and 
rose at last. He must dress and get off to Gros- 
venor Square, imless he wished to keep the table 
waiting. 

Everything was ready for him. Chaffey never 
neglected a duty, or a collar stud. As Aubrey 
changed into immaculate evening dress his 
thoughts went again to that boy in his prison cell, 
cut off from every enjoyment, sentenced to a living 
death by the Law he was supposed to have out- 
raged. 

“/ donH believe he ever did it!'' 


A Great — or Little Thing? 


23 


Aubrey’s own voice startled himself. He was 
conscious of standing before his toilet glass gazing 
at his own reflection, and yet seeing behind it 
only that yoimg passionate face, and the trembling 
lips that proclaimed innocence. 

‘ ‘ Funny. I can’t get away from that memory ! ’ ’ 
he said to himself. “Sort of obsesses me! To 
think of him tonight, and then look at this!'" 

“This” meant the luxury of his own dressing- 
room, with its appointments and comforts ; its note 
of refined taste, and bachelor independence. The 
sight of his face in the glass showed it less bored 
and indifferent than its wont. A certain uneasi- 
ness and distress replaced its usual composure. 
What was the reason? Aubrey asked himself that 
question again, and found no answer. He had 
gone to hear this case out of pure curiosity. He 
had heard it with a sense of indignant helplessness ; 
an irritation provoked by every word of the dog- 
matic coimsel who voiced the prosecution. He 
had read prejudice into every stilted phrase and 
stereotyped theory. He had focussed blunders 
and smiled at deductions. Yet — he had done 
nothing ; he could do nothing. And for two years 
that unfortunate boy would be condemned to the 
horrors of which he had been reading. The coarse 
food, the tyranny, the hateful routine, the hard 
labour, and worst of all the loneliness and isola- 
tion of undeserved imprisonment. 

“For he never did it!” Aubrey repeated. “I’ll 
swear he never did it!” 


24 


The Iron Stair 


“You’re right, sir,” said the subdued tones of 
his attentive valet, at hand to fasten sleeve links, 
and brush specks from speckless broadcloth. 
“He never did, if I’m any judge of guilt, or in- 
nocence. I ought to be, I’ve sampled some.” 

“ Chaff ey,” said his master, “do you think you 
could possibly find out anything about this case 
that hasn’t transpired in evidence? It seems to 
me there must be something behind it all. A 
motive of some sort. Supposing any one bore the 
boy a grudge? Had an interest in getting him 
into a false position? Would it be possible to 
make such enquiries as would lead to a clearing up 
of the mystery?” 

Chaff ey shook his head. “I shouldn’t worry, 
sir. The thing’s over and done with. No good 
could come of raking up an old scandal to cover a 
new one. You see his own people were dead 
against him. They must have known. ” 

“One’s own people are sometimes one’s harsh- 
est foes, ” said Aubrey, taking the proffered hand- 
kerchief and gloves. “I wish you’d think it 
out, Chaff ey. You’re rather keen on detective 
blunders.” 

“If you wish it, sir. I’ll give the matter my best 
attention. It’s a bit queer, if I may say so, that 
we should both feel so concerned about this 
young Gale. . . . Taxi, sir?” 

“Yes. I suppose five minutes’ll do the trick?” 

“The streets are a bit congested, sir. But 
I’ll tell the man to do his best. ” 


A Great — or Little Thing? 


25 


As Aubrey Derringham was whirled in and out 
of the noisy motor traffic that had begun to dis- 
organize London’s thoroughfares, he wondered who 
he was to meet at Mrs. Daniel Schultze’s dinner. 
His previous acquaintance with her hospitality 
had been limited to an afternoon At Home, or a 
furious evening of Auction Bridge. There would 
be sure to be Bridge after tonight’s dinner, but he 
was determined to leave before the dreaded 
“fours” were arranged. He felt in no mood 
for such excitement as those rabid enthusiasts 
proffered. 

He was thinking of the different meanings of 
life as typified by individual interests. Social 
position to one, wealth to another, success, fame, 
ambition, achievement. So it had been in past 
ages, in cities as magnificent, empires as imposing. 
And Time’s relentless scythe had passed over them 
all, leaving only histories more or less credible. 
So much, so little; so little, so much. And the 
same sun still shone on the just and the unjust, 
the same moon rose on the mysteries and sorrows 
and wickedness of nights such as this present one. 
Bringing hope or joy, peace or woe, desire or 
death. How wonderful it was, and how puzzling. 

He looked at the passing crowd. The cabs and 
carriages and motor cars, each with their well- 
dressed occupants ; each emblematic of some hope, 
or gain, or intrigue, or mystery. And the houses. 
Those mansions of the great and the rich, those 
humbler neighbours elbowing themselves out of a 


26 


The Iron Stair 


mews, or a back street, in the endeavour to achieve 
postal significance. What was the real meaning 
of it all? For what purpose were these crowds, 
this wealth, these sated, wasteful, extravagant 
lives, and the puppets who danced in and out of 
the show? 

Before he could realize the drift of such a ques- 
tion his taxi drew up at the Schultze mansion, 
and he found himself on crimson carpet, and amidst 
obsequious flunkeys, to the tune of whose minis- 
trations he was soon shaking hands and listening to 
introductions in the blue and gold drawing-rooms 
of Mrs. Daniel Schultze. 

The lady, of ample presence and Semitic origin, 
called by her intimates “Mrs. Danny,’' was ex- 
traordinarily gracious to Aubrey Fitzjohn Der- 
ringham. In the first place he was the son of a 
Peer. In the next he was considered very exclu- 
sive, and extremely difficult to get hold of. Again 
he was unmarried, and an excellent Bridge player. 
Mrs. Danny had two fair, or strictly speaking two 
dark daughters, gifted with that vivid oriental 
beauty for which their race is famed — ^in youth. 
It was her earnest desire that they should become 
aristocrats by marriage, and she hailed even im- 
pecunious younger sons with delight, if only they 
possessed titled relations, or coroneted prospects. 

One of those daughters was Aubrey’s dinner 
complement. She was only just “out,” so the 
season and everything connected with it held 


A Great — or Little Thing? 


27 


charms of the “unknown.” Her more hlase 
sister was trembling on the verge of an engagement 
not yet announced. 

Miriam Schultze was as lovely as a dream of the 
Orient, but she possessed no attraction for the 
Honourable Aubrey. He foresaw the changes 
that a few years would bring even to a profile as 
faultless, a figure as slim. Besides, in all she said, 
and looked, there lurked that touch of vulgarity 
from which her father and mother suffered, and 
which no education had eradicated in their off- 
spring. But tonight the girl embarked upon 
a subject of discussion that rendered her com- 
panion less critical than usual. Nothing more or 
less than the forgery case which was engrossing 
Aubrey’s mind. “I’m so interested in it,” she 
said, “for Joss Myers, who defended the boy, is 
a cousin of ours. He was very full of it. It’s 
his first really important case. And I see by 
tonight’s paper there was a verdict of guilty. 
He’ll be awfully sore about that.” 

Aubrey was astonished. He plunged straight- 
way into a discussion of his own day’s occupation. 
He tried to find out from the girl what was her 
cousin’s real opinion of his client. 

“Oh — he thought all along the boy hadn’t done 
it!” she exclaimed. “And that night out of 
which they made so much was a put-up thing. 
He was made drunk, and then supposed to have 
got into a scrape for which he had to pay the 
piper. Joss says he’s inclined to think it was 


28 


The Iron Stair 


really the other brother who’s guilty, not Geoffrey 
Gale.” 

‘ ‘ The other brother ! ’ ’ 

Aubrey rejected a sorbet in his excitement. The 
young curate? What on earth makes your cousin 
think that?” 

‘‘Have you read all the evidence?” asked the 
girl. 

“Not any. I was present this morning by mere 
accident. I heard the speeches for prosecution 
and defence, and the slimming up, and the verdict. 
The case interested me strangely. The boy was so 
young, and then — that heart-broken cry of his — 
at the end. It made a lasting impression on my 
mind.” 

“I read it in tonight’s Pall Mall^ while my hair 
was being done,” she said. “I wish I had gone 
to the Courts. I was there the first day, but I 
couldn’t spare the time again. One’s days are so 
full at the commencement of the season.” 

Aubrey smiled indulgently at the affectation of 
importance. Then he led her back to the all- 
engrossing subject of the Forgery Case. He 
wanted to hear what Joshua Myers had learnt of 
the boy’s character, nature, and associations. 
Before he left the dinner table he had made up 
his mind to seek the young lawyer himself, and 
try to fit disjointed facts and circumstances into 
the complicated puzzle that had meant Geoffrey 
Gale’s prosecution. 

He did his best to avoid Bridge, pleading another 


A Great — or Little Thing? 


29 


engagement. He might have succeeded but for 
Miriam’s intervention. ^‘Just one rubber. Do — 
and play at my table. Joss Myers hasn’t come 
yet. He promised to be my partner. ” 

“Myers? Is coming?” 

Aubrey hesitated, and was lost. He felt that 
he might as well stay on the chance of an introduc- 
tion to the barrister who had lost his first case. 
He might learn some important facts that would 
throw light on Geoffrey Gale’s history. 


CHAPTER III 

“by each let this be heard’' 

Joshua Myers turned up at the Schultze domi- 
cile too late for Bridge, but early enough for that 
introduction desired by Aubrey. No one spoke 
of his first failure, if indeed any one thought of it 
as an interest sandwiched between lost rubbers, 
or hard- won victories on “no trumps.” 

Aubrey made himself specially agreeable to the 
dark sombre-looking young man, who was spoken 
of as likely to be an ornament to the Bar, and 
who brought to his profession the acuteness of his 
race, as well as no mean portion of its wealth and 
influence. 

When Myers took his leave Aubrey did the same, 
and finding his new acquaintance inclined for 
exercise, discovered that their ways lay sufficiently 
near for companionship. He made his opportunity 
and contrived to lead the conversation to their 
mutual interest in the Forgery Case. Myers was 
less reticent than his manner betokened ; in fact he 
seemed keen on explaining just how difficulties had 
been made, the facts rendered unassailable. He 
30 


By Each Let This Be Heard 31 


seemed surprised at Aubrey Fitzjohn Derring- 
ham’s interest in criminal matters. More than 
surprised when, accepting his invitation for a 
smoke and an apollinaris, he accompanied him 
to his rooms, and witnessed the luxury of his 
surroundings. 

Over cigarettes and whiskey they touched on 
political difficulties, and the prospects of prolonged 
Liberalism. Then, very cautiously, Aubrey led 
the conversation to the subject that so obsessed 
him. If the Law was so strong, and yet could 
make mistakes so vital to human liberty, who was 
safe? 

Joshua Myers sprang eagerly into argument. 

“The boy was to blame — in a manner, ” he said. 
“He held something back. I couldn’t get it out 
of him. I told him the case was pretty black, but 
he wouldn’t believe me. Even up to the moment 
that the jury returned with their verdict cut and 
dried and agreed upon, he didn’t seem to realize 
what it meant. ” 

“That accounts for his declaration of innocence, 
I suppose?” 

As if that was any use, ” answered the barrister. 
“A dramatic episode worked up into the best 
journalese; warranted to sell a few hundred 
^ extra specials.’ But — it convinced no one. ” 

“ It convinced me. ” 

Myers flashed his vivid dark eyes on the quiet 
face. “Really? You formed your own opinion 
of the case, in spite of evidence?” 


32 


The Iron Stair 


‘T heard none. I only attended the last act of 
the drama. ” 

‘‘Ah — it was only that! I saw the poor boy 
tonight, in his cell. It was very — painful. 

Aubrey thought none the worse of legal author- 
ity for manifesting a little natural feeling. He lit 
a fresh cigarette, and paid renewed attention to the 
syphon, before resuming the conversation. 

“You won’t appeal, I suppose?” 

“No use. The judge had made up his mind. 
That carries weight in the higher courts. Besides," 
he has no money.” 

“It seems hard that his own relative should be 
the prosecutor. ” 

“Hard! My dear Mr. Derringham, have you 
any conception of the hardness of the Noncon- 
formist conscience? A nether millstone is cotton 
wool to it! Wrong — ^judged and condemned as 
wrong — demands fire and brimstone, and the 
‘worm that never dies,’ and all the horrors that 
only true piety can paint as its avenger!” 

“That’s the uncle! What about the brother? 
Twins are supposed to be devoted?” 

“This must be the rare case that means excep- 
tion. These brothers seem as antagonistic as 
Charles and Joseph Surface. One all careless 
good-humour, generosity, and recklessness; the 
other — well, two words paint him: Canting 
hypocrite ! ” 

“I thought so. I watched his face. ” 

“I believe he knows something that would have 


By Each Let This Be Heard 33 


saved the boy. That he could have spoken but 
he wouldn’t. He wanted him disgraced, and he 
wanted him out of the way.” 

“ Love complications? ” 

^‘Exactly. The everlasting she, who from 
birth to burial plays havoc with men’s lives!” 

“We are both — safe — so far, I presume?” said 
Aubrey. “A married man wouldn’t have said 
that.” 

“No. I’m no Benedict, and have no desire to 
become one. As for you — ” he looked round. 
“You’re wise if you know when you’re well 
off.” 

“I hope I do know it. On the other hand empty 
vices don’t appeal. I shun morning reflections, 
and the chorus of musical comedy spells only — 
inanity.” 

“Yet you’re young enough for a loose end or 
two?” 

“Oh, I don’t set up as a moral example! It’s 
my fault I suppose that I’m so easily bored, and 
that human nature interests me more as a study 
than an incentive. ” 

“A study. Is it that? If you followed a pro- 
fession like mine ” 

“Blame indolence, and the absurd conventions 
of family pride. A new family, a double edition 
of pride.” 

“You do — nothing, I suppose?” 

“I specialize a little in travelling, but there’s 
not a quarter of the habitable globe without its 
3 


34 


The Iron Stair 


hotel, and its telephone. I’m thirty years of age 
— today, and I confess the problem of cui hono is 
the bogey of my present, possibly of my fu- 
ture ” 

“Is that why you sought distraction in the Law 
Courts?” asked Myers. 

“One reason. Yes . . . I’ve been worrying 
myself over the result ever since. I expected an 
interest, I’ve gained an experience. ” 

“How is that?” 

“Something about that boy appealed to me. 
It wasn’t only his youth, his good looks, but that 
sense of thoughtless innocence baiting a trap that 
has closed upon him. I seemed suddenly con- 
fronted by a problem of Life. I wanted to solve 
it. I asked myself how such things could be, and 
why? It looks as if a fiendish calculation was at 
work behind the regulated machinery of our 
civilized habits. Setting all precedent at naught; 
mocking at safeguards as at moral standards.” 

“One could almost believe it,” agreed Myers, 
“if one pursued the subject deeply enough. In 
the present case, this of Geoffrey Gale, we both 
seem to have arrived at the same conclusion though 
we travelled there by different routes. I can’t 
tell you how gratified I am at finding someone who 
shares my opinion.” 

“Ulogically, I presume?” said Aubrey. 

“I’m not so sure of that. You pay me the 
honour of convincing you as you heard no direct 
evidence.” 


By Each Let This Be Heard 35 


That’s true. But I fancy the boy himself had 
something to do with it.” 

“You did not, by any chance, see the young 
lady. Miss Jessop — cousin of the brothers?” 
enquired Myers. 

“I only saw a girlish figure, and a big black hat. 
Why do you ask?” 

“Perhaps to find if any other influence is at 
work,” smiled the young barrister, as he rose and 
pushed aside his chair. 

“Rest assured there isn’t,” said his host, also 
rising. “Must you go? I’m sorry. I hope this 
first meeting isn’t our last.” 

“I hope so also. This is my address. I live in 
the Temple. I find I can work better there. Give 
me a look in any day after five, if you’re ever in 
such an unfashionable direction.” 

They shook hands. Aubrey conducted Myers 
to the outer door, and then returned to his com- 
fortable room, and the perusal of the last post. 

“I don’t feel quite as bored as usual tonight,” 
he said to himself. “But tomorrow, I suppose, it 
will all come back. Flat, stale, unprofitable! If 
only I hadn’t come up against this blank wall. If 
I could do anything for that boy, but, of course, 
I can’t. The Law’s got him hard and fast. ” 

He turned out the electric light, and sauntered 
into his bedroom. There flashed into his mind one 
of those seemingly inconsequent memories that at 
times surprise us. The lines of a schoolboy recita- 
tion ; a reminiscence of schoolboy days — 


36 


The Iron Stair 


And Eugene Aram walked between y 
With gyves upon his wrist. ” 

That was the fate of Geoffrey Dale. The fate 
of once bright happy boyhood. To be shut fast 
between prison walls, spending tonight with the 
memory of that cruel sentence ringing in his ears — 
^‘Two years penal servitude.'’ 

Aubrey Fitzjohn slept badly. 

Towards morning he had a strange dream. He 
seemed to be standing amidst bleak grey moor- 
land, stretching either side of bare heights, under 
a grey sky. Huge blocks of quartz and granite 
lay scattered around as if thrown up by some fierce 
explosion, or some under- world force. And as he 
stood, and looked around, he saw a chain of human 
beings moving in linked apathy towards the blocks. 
They commenced to hew at them with queer 
pointed axes. He seemed to hear the monotonous 
blows, to watch the rise and fall of the various 
arms. No one spoke. Two by two the gang 
worked, and two by two the scattered warders 
watched their efforts. It was a weird sight. 
Grey sky, grey moor, grey figures. Suddenly the 
whole space grew misty and indistinct. A sort of 
curtain veiled the intervening spaces and shrouded 
the chained groups. He strained his eyes, but 
could see nothing. He tried to move, but his 
feet seemed paralysed. Then he became conscious 
of something approaching through the mist. A 


By Each Let This Be Heard 37 


rush of rapid feet; hoarse breathing. He felt 
rather than saw that the approaching figure had 
discovered him. His legs were clasped by chained 
hands. Something crouched at his feet ; a sobbing 
voice besought mercy. The face was hidden, but 
the voice sounded familiar. Aubrey was suddenly 
wide awake, and it was ringing in his ears. Don't 
give me up! I'm innocent!" 

Sitting bolt upright in his bed he stared at the 
lemon-coloured sunlight filtering through a screen 
of silk draperies. He rubbed his eyes; he told 
himself it was but a dream born of the disturbances 
of the previous day. 

He flung himself back on the pillows, and 
glanced at his watch. Only seven o’clock ! It was 
annoying to wake so early, and so completely, for 
he felt that sleep was effectually banished. He 
must lie awake and think, or stop awake and read. 
He always kept a book or two by his bedside. He 
stretched out a hand, and took the nearest volume. 
It was the last novel of D’Annunzio’s. Aubrey 
remembered he had begun to read it the previous 
day. Chaff ey had also remembered the fact. As 
he opened it some newspaper cuttings fell out. 
He took up one, and an exclamation escaped him. 
Chaff ey again! He had taken the trouble of cut- 
ting out the Case of Geoffrey Gale from the first 
hearing to the verdict. It was a concise and 
complete history ready for Aubrey to peruse. 

He did peruse it from beginning to end. He 
wondered no longer at the verdict. The summing 


38 


The Iron Stair 


up was directed to guilt. A harsh, cold, biassed 
speech, that could not but influence the minds of 
a British jury. Yet throughout the whole sor- 
did tale Aubrey wondered what had tied the 
prisoner’s tongue. Why he could not have cleared 
up certain facts that might have thrown more 
favourable light on his actions? There was 
something “mulish” about the boy’s proceedings. 
Something that had prejudiced the “twelve good 
men and true” on whom his fate depended. 

Aubrey finished the last paragraph. Re-read 
that passionate exclamation, learnt how “the 
prisoner had been hurried off under the charge of 
the warders,” and felt again that someone had 
blundered seriously. He threw the papers down, 
and clasping his hands behind his head, gave him- 
self up to thought. 

His dream came back with an added significance. 
The fact of opening his eyes on a fresh day in no 
way relieved his mind of that previous obsession. 
His vision of the figure flying to him through mist 
and obscurity, clasping him in frenzy, entreating 
aid, was a vivid remembrance. He summoned 
Chaffey before his usual hour in order to gain dis- 
traction. No previous experience had ever af- 
fected him in such a manner. He was unable to 
account for it. 

“It’s not as if I were a philanthropist. I don’t 
think I’ve ever done much good to my fellow-man,” 
he reflected. “I took Chaffey as a freak. It 
amused me to watch his daily wonder at my un- 


By Each Let This Be Heard 39 


suspicious attitude. My carelessness in the mat- 
ter of loose silver and sleeve links. The experiment 
has been a success, still, I don’t see where a second 
enterprise of the sort could land me ... . That 
poor chap — I suppose he’s feasting on s k illy, 
washing his cell, making his bed, and here am I 
luxuriating in comfort that I’ve done little to 
deserve!” 

Chaffey entered with tea and its morning ac- 
companiments, and Aubrey opened the usual 
morning discussion. 

“Thoughtful of you to cut out those press 
reports, ” he said. “ I suppose there’s nothing new 
today?” 

“No, sir, not a word. That’s the way, sir, 
with the press. They piles up an interest, and 
then drops it. ” 

Aubrey took the steaming cup of tea, and sipped 
it with lazy enjoyment. 

“You’ll be surprised to hear,” he said, “that I 
met last night the very counsel who defended 
young Gale. More, I brought him here to talk 
matters over. He is quite convinced of the boy’s 
innocence. ” 

“Yet he couldn’t get him off, sir?” 

“No; nor will there be an appeal. The boy’s 
fate is sealed for two years. I wonder what life 
will mean for him — afterwards? I suppose prison 
discipline hasn’t a — softening effect, upon one’s 
sensibilities, Chaffey ? ’ ’ 

“It depends, sir. Some takes it hard, and some 


40 


The Iron Stair 


is resigned, and some, of course, gets credited with 
ill-health, and have only light tasks. But there’s 
those as rebels from first hour to last. Rebels, 
and suffers, and plots escapes, and revenge. 
You see, sir, it’s harder to suffer injustice than to 
bear what one’s deserved. ” 

'‘Plot and plan escapes,” repeated Aubrey. 
“Do prisoners often escape, Chaffey?” 

“Not often, sir. Specially from Portland, or 
Dartmoor. They say no one ever has really got 
off from either one o’ them. You’ve never seen a 
big prison p’raps, sir?” 

“No, Chaffey.” 

Aubrey put down his cup, and sat up. “ Do you 
think it would interest me to visit one?” 

“I can’t say, sir. I only thought that as you’d 
taken up this — hobby — ain’t it, sir?” 

“We’ll leave it at that, Chaffey. ” 

“Well, sir, bein’ interested in criminal law, and 
queer cases, you might like to see the sort o’ place 
they criminals get put away in?” 

“Would I be able to get into one of those prisons, 
Chaffey?” 

“If you’ve got influence, sir. You could apply 
to the Home Secretary. Of course you’d have to 
give a reason. You might say you wanted to 
inspect ’em for a political purpose, or that you 
were going to write a book. Lord Dulcimer bein’ 
in the Upper House, it wouldn’t be difficult, sir.” 

“I declare you’re a genius, Chaffey! Why did 
I never think of this before?” 


By Each Let This Be Heard 41 


“I’m proud, sir, to do anything that ’ud make 
you take a real interest in life, so to say. It has 
hurt me, sir, to see you so bored, and so indifferent 
to everything. Excuse the freedom o’ speech, sir, 
but you’ve give me leave to say out what’s in my 
mind.” 

“Yes. It’s good for you. As for my boredom, 
well, you’ve done more to relieve it than any one I 
know. It’s a queer thing to say to one’s valet — 
but then I’m by way of being queer, eh. Chaff ey? 
Give me my cigarette case, and I’ll think over your 
suggestion. I — I suppose Geoffrey Gale won’t 
be sent to one of those prisons you mentioned, just 
yet?” 

“I can’t say, sir. But the barrister gentleman 
would be able to tell you. ” 

“I suppose he would. But he might wonder at 
my curiosity. In fact he did wonder at it. You 
see I don’t know those people. If any one of them 
had been a personal acquaintance, my interest 
wouldn’t have seemed so remarkable.” 

Chaffey was silent. He had nothing more to 
suggest, nor could he see what use his master could 
make of further information. The case was over 
and done with. The prisoner’s fate sealed. Penal 
servitude was a hard fate to face any one so young, 
but the Law has a long arm and a sharp claw. 
Geoffrey Gale was safe in its clutches. There he 
must remain for the proscribed period unless good 
behaviour, or ill-health, got him a shorter term. 

Chaffey knew enough of rigorous penal discipline 


42 


The Iron Stair 


to know also how rich a crop of sickness, insanity, 
and desperation it produced. He had heard 
many a sordid tale; seen more than one broken- 
down “lifer.” He knew how promising careers 
might be wrecked, moral integrity abandoned, 
good intentions abolished, and the seeds of future 
ill-doing sown in reckless hearts. Not to many 
“gaol birds ” is a helping hand outstretched. Few 
there are who find it possible to establish a new 
record; to wipe the smirch off the slate, and start 
afresh on life’s highroad. 

“Once a criminal, always a criminal” is the 
accepted verdict of conviction, and it is little 
wonder that prison records teem with repetitions 
of crime, instead of justifying a system that should 
abolish it. 

Aubrey Derringham took his morning bath, and 
made his usual toilet, and then suddenly recog- 
nized that the routine of his life was disorganized. 

A taste for criminal subjects had taken the place 
of fashionable pleasures. To stroll past the Motor 
Mile, to lunch at his Club, to visit his tailor, to 
take his car at reckless speed forty or fifty miles 
out of London, by way of getting an appetite for 
dinner, to sample the chefs of the Ritz, or the 
Carlton, to “do” a play, or make one of a crush 
to witness the last contortions of fashionable waltz- 
ing, these occupations had seemed hitherto to 
fill up the day’s programme. 

But as he surveyed them in turn he found that 


By Each Let This Be Heard 43 


the “motor spin ” through the sweet spring country 
alone tempted his leisure. He swept aside lunch 
engagements with indifference. He ordered the 
car to be ready at twelve o’clock, and prepared to 
be his own driver. 

“I’m a bit out of practice, ” he told Chaff ey, as 
he ventured mild remonstrance. “I mean to work 
it up again. One feels more independent when 
one drives oneself. ” 

So he attired himself in leather and goggles, and 
got into the long low touring car whose “records” 
had nearly brought him into various county courts. 
Then cautiously and cleverly he steered through 
outlying traffic and congested suburbs, and so away 
to the Surrey hills, with Chaffey watchful and 
admonitory by his side. 

They spoke very little. Speed and an open 
car are not conducive to conversation. But the 
queer valet noted something was “up” with his 
master. Some subject, or plan, was engrossing 
him, independently of his pride in his car, and the 
speed limit. 

“It ain’t my business,” thought this student of 
human nature. “But I could give a pretty good 
guess what’s in his mind. ” 


CHAPTER IV 

'‘a system — ^AND ITS PRINCIPLES” 

Aubrey FitzJohn Derringham accepted an- 
other invitation to the Daniel Schultzes’ in the 
hopes of again meeting Joshua Myers. It was to a 
Sunday luncheon, and Mrs. Schultze was posing as 
a devoted mother for the benefit of an effete 
Dukelet, whom she had purloined for the occasion. 

The usual luxury, the usual perfection of food 
and service gave the usual advertisement of suc- 
cessful Jewish finance. The Dukelet, a youth of 
twenty-two, who was an impoverished and father- 
less orphan, seemed to have fallen an easy prey to 
the beautiful Miriam. He had appraised her 
charms as scarcely secondary to Gertie Ellerslie, 
of musical comedy fame, but her conversation as 
vastly inferior. The girl was too well educated 
for flippancy; her slang had a touch of epigram. 

Aubrey Derringham shelved his young Grace 
by his usual cool method of appropriation. He 
learnt that Myers was expected to drop in either 
to lunch, or after. 

“He nearly always comes to us on Sundays,” 
said Miriam. “How did you get on? ” she added. 

44 


A System — and Its Principles 45 


*‘He is interesting,” said Aubrey, ‘'and very 
clever. I should think he had a career before him. ’ ’ 
‘ ‘ Oh — that of course ! ’ ’ said his cousin. “ K. C. 
and then — Judgeship. It’s all on the cards. Are 
you interested in politics, Mr. Derringham?” 

“I can’t say I am. ” 

“But your brother is in the House. I read a 
speech of his not long ago. ” 

“He’d be flattered I’m sure,” said Aubrey. 
“It’s more than I’ve ever done. Politics are only 
another word for self-seeking. No politician can 
afford a larger outlook on national demands than 
his party permits. Besides — they make you feel 
that life is a mere table of statistics, and men and 
women mere decimal fragments of parliamentary 
arithmetic. ” 

The girl laughed. “It sounds clever, but it’s 
rather cruel. I am an Imperialist at heart, and 
I like to think the legislators of the country do 
their best for its honour and welfare. ” 

“We all like to think that,” he agreed. “But 
very few of us believe it . Ah, there is your cousin ! ’ ’ 
The Dukelet seized the opportunity, and took 
the seat his temporary rival had vacated. 

“Fancy your talking to a political Johnnie,” 
he remarked facetiously, and his eyes followed 
Aubrey in wide amazement. “Why — it’s a man 
he’s left you for!” 

“Don’t crush me,” said Miriam. “And don’t 
fancy I mind being left — for such a man. ” 

“Who is he?” asked the youth. “Looks ” 


46 


The Iron Stair 


“Jewish? You’d better say it. I know it was 
in your mind. He is a cousin of mine, and on 
the way to — achieve great things.” She rose. 
“Mother’s going down now. Will you come?” 

‘ ‘ May I sit next you ? ’ ’ 

“If you wish. But I warn you ‘the political 
Johnnie’ will be on the other side. ” 

She threw him a glance which he translated as 
the “glad eye, ” and said a word to Myers and to 
Aubrey which placed them next each other and 
near herself. 

It was a very brilliant luncheon, for Mrs. 
Schultze was a very clever woman and dispensed 
popularity, as well as attracted it. Finance was, 
of course, represented in its heaviest and most 
enterprising aspect; the very courses breathed 
out “shekels,” but plutocratic importance was so 
much the trend of the age that even the young 
Dukelet was ready to promise his name to a 
Board of Directors. 

Aubrey Derringham found the rising barrister 
an even more delightful companion than at their 
last meeting. On that occasion his pride had been 
overshadowed by an unsuccessful case. Today 
he was brimming over with the importance of a 
brilliant achievement on some technical point that 
promised an infinitude of “briefs.” It was not 
easy to bring him down to the level of prison life, 
its rigours, and its deeply hidden mysteries. But 
Aubrey had come for a purpose, and worked for it 
manfully. 


A System — and Its Principles 47 


It surprised him a little when after one of his 
questions, Myers showed a sudden change of front. 
He took the subject right out of his questioner’s 
hands, went into it, summed up wrongs and rights, 
errors and possibilities. Then — it was as if he 
laid it fiat and clean on the table before him, and 
said, “Now, do you mind telling me why you 
want to know all this?” 

Aubrey was rather taken aback. The question 
was so direct, the brilliant eyes so penetrating. 

“’Pon my word,” he said, “I hardly know. I 
happened to take up a book on prison life the 
other day, and I remembered that I had never 
seen such a place. ” 

“It’s a queer museum of human curiosities. 
Not a pleasant place, believe me. There’s some- 
thing rather — terrifying, in being confronted by the 
criminal side of existence. The endeavour to 
place your fellow-man before your mental vision 
as an expert in deeds your own mind scarcely 
conceives as committable. Every tree has a 
crooked branch. That of life can’t expect to be 
exclusive. ” 

“Do you think reformation possible? I mean 
is the type the result of environment, or the effects 
of a wrong system?” 

“Both. The upbringing and the sordid misery 
of one class turn it into a monster fighting for its 
rights; demanding equal share in the world’s 
good things. It can’t argue, it can’t reason. It 
has only a brutal hatred of the better class, a 


48 


The Iron Stair 


brutal envy of the ease and comfort it doesn’t 
possess; and that it could never do anything but 
abuse if it did possess. We have had vast cyclonic 
upheavals ; towns and cities destroyed in a moment 
of nature’s fury. I sometimes wish she would turn 
her attention to our criminal class and their 
habitat. Sweep them aside, avalanche them, burn 
them on one gigantic pyre, and leave the world free 
and clean, and able to breathe peace and good will 
to a new race. ” 

“But there are innocent victims of the system. 
Would you give them no chance of repenting?” 

“The innocent victim is branded to his life’s 
end by the searing iron of error. The principle of a 
system is its own worst enemy. It can’t afford 
to condemn what it discovers to be inefficient. ” 

“You’ll think I’m unusually pertinacious,” 
said Aubrey. “But I’d like to ask one more 
question. If you, or some legal official equally re- 
sponsible, knew that a man was suffering unjustly, 
knew that this system would have an injurious 
effect upon his life, would you try to — well, to 
help him? I mean would it be against your con- 
science to do it?” 

“There you have me,” said Myers seriously. 
“Speaking as an upholder of the majesty of the 
Law, I could not disobey its orders. Speaking 
as a man compassionating a fellow-man, I would 
do my very utmost; even at attendant risks! 
It’s a very serious matter you know, Mr. Derring- 
ham ” 


A System — and Its Principles 49 


“What are you two discussing so gravely?” 
interrupted Miriam’s voice. “You might be con- 
spirators, by your appearance! Mr. Derringham, 
you’ve been offered orange salad for the past two 
minutes. If you don’t want it, pass it on. ” 

Aubrey apologized, and helped himself to the 
delicacy in question. After which Miriam de- 
manded his attention, and kept it till her mother 
gave the signal for departure. 

“Come up and smoke on the balcony, it’s quite 
private,” she called out. “And it will be more 
companionable than the sheep-and-goat business.” 

The invitation meant a general movement for 
such of the guests as were remaining. Aubrey and 
Myers were among them. The astute barrister 
had begun to ask himself what could be the 
reason for the young man’s extraordinary interest 
in criminal matters. Today’s discussion on pris- 
ons, and prison life, following up their previous 
discussion on Geoffrey Gale’s conviction, seemed 
to hint at something beyond casual interest. Yet 
Aubrey Derringham had only gone to the Law 
Courts on chance. He had no personal interest in 
the forgery case; not even an acquaintance with 
any of the parties concerned in it. 

It seemed odd, but the very oddity attracted 
Myers. He began to wonder whether Aubrey 
Derringham had ever done anything that might 
have brought him into such a position as Geoffrey 
Gale’s? Was there some mystery in the back- 
ground of his own life? 


50 


The Iron Stair 


Queer things lurked behind the respectability 
of those exclusive chambers in the Albany. Odd 
stories had circulated ; now and then a scandal had 
leaked out. Sybarite manhood hugged queer 
company to itself in the seclusion of bachelor 
freedom. Art had strange ideals, and its followers 
were not always what the outside veneer pretended. 
Could it be that his new friend was hovering on 
the brink of an exploding episode, or inculpated 
by reason of moral weakness in the meshes of some 
ghastly secret ? 

Myers looked at the pale, clear-cut face, the 
indolent eyes, the air of ease and good breeding 
so distinctive of Aubrey Derringham. All and 
each gave denial to any imagining connected with 
the wild comedies of aristocratic life. Aubrey’s 
own confession had been that of the onlooker, 
impelled by curiosity, and withheld by indolence. 
He had lived in the world, watched and shared 
some of its stage play, but neither fierce grief nor 
hungry passion had developed the emotional side 
of his nature. And he was thirty years of age. 
Thirty — and more interested in a boy’s blundering 
crime than in any woman’s charm or loveliness. 

Queer. But yet interesting. The fact of its 
queemess made it that, and Joshua Myers found 
himself inclined to watch results. This unusual 
sympathy with purely impersonal matters was a 
study in that book of human characteristics which 
daily opened fresh leaves to his ambitious soul. 

The wild comedy of life! What revelations it 


A System — and Its Principles 51 


brought, what secrets it held. What untold, and 
untenable, interest. And each of these meant a 
stepping-stone to that career he had mapped out. 
Each was a rung on the ladder of success. His 
busy mind ascended to imagined heights even as 
he smoked cigarettes with Aubrey Derringham, 
and listened to the banalities of the little Duke 
with whom Miriam Schultze was flirting outrage- 
ously. 

The result of Myers’ frank revelations showed 
itself later when Aubrey Derringham found himself 
the possessor of a letter to the Governor of Port- 
land Prison. Only when he received the permit 
to go over the huge citadel safeguarding British 
subjects did he question himself as to its signific- 
ance. Why visit such a place? Why peer into 
the inner sanctuary of legal mystery typified by 
legal penalties ? It would not raise his estimate of 
his fellow-man, it would only introduce him to a 
certain section of society “under a cloud,” and 
environed by conditions that to the free and law- 
abiding citizen were incredible hardships. 

He discussed the matter with Chaffey, but re- 
ceived little encouragement. As a reformed 
character the queer valet shunned everything 
connected with police espionage. 

“It’ll look different to you, sir,” he allowed. 
“P’raps you’ll be surprised at the accommodation, 
and feedin,’ and rules. I’ve heard visitors say 
we were too well treated ; and it was no wonder we 


52 


The Iron Stair 


tried to get back. Silly talk, sir! No one ’ud 
ever want to go back, unless life was made too hard 
for him after he got out. ” 

“I think ril go to Portland, said Aubrey. ‘T 
shall motor down to Weymouth, and put up at a 
hotel, and go over the prison next morning. ” 

“Will you be wanting me, sir?'* 

‘ ‘ Can the car be trusted ? " 

“Certainly, sir. And you'll pass heaps of towns 
with motor works. No fear of a breakdown." 

“All right, then I'll dispense with your services. 
I suppose, " he added carelessly, “you've not heard 
where that poor young fellow has been sent ? " 

“Not to Portland, sir." 

Aubrey started slightly. “Why did you say 
that?" 

“Beg pardon, sir, no offence. I just happened 
to hear he was still at the Scrubs, and you're 
goin' further afield." 

“He’s been there a month, hasn’t he?" 

“Yes, sir. Might I take the liberty of adding 
another bit of mformation, sir? The curate 
brother has gone to a parish in South Devon. And 
he’s goin’ to be married to the young lady. Miss 
Jessop, in a few months. ” 

“You’ve found out that!” 

“It came round to me, sir, in a manner o' 
speaking. I have friends in Manchester, sir. " 

“I understand. . . . You don't happen to 
know the name of that Devonshire parish, I 
suppose?" 


A System — and Its Principles 53 


“I could find out, sir. I rather fancy the uncle 
put it into one o* them ere Christian papers, as 
prints sermons, and has queer advertisements.” 

Aubrey laughed. “It seems that the Non- 
comformist conscience isn’t above a pardonable 
pride in worldly achievements, or indifferent to 
secular advantage ! ’ ’ 

“You’d like to know the parish, sir?” 

“I should. Also, if by your indirect methods 
you could find out what Miss Jessop is like, and 
whether this — marriage, is one of inclination 
it might add to the interest of the story. ” 

“Story, sir?” 

“You advised embryo authorship as a reason 
for 1 my curiosity respecting government offices. 
It seems to me there is a very fair opening chapter, 
dating from my visit to the Law Courts. How 
does it strike you, Chaffey?” 

“I never can make out, sir, whether you’re 
laughing, or in earnest. Writing books isn’t 
easy, I should say. I’d leave it to them as has to 
do it for a living, if I was you, sir. ” 

“Perhaps you’re right. Still it isn’t every 
author who gets hold of a human document. 
Truth is stranger than fiction, you know. ” 

“Stranger, sir, perhaps, but not so pleasant to 
read about. ” 

“Go and put the car in order, ” said his master. 
“And get me a road map. I’ll start this afternoon 
and come back tomorrow night. Take a holiday, 
Chaffey. You deserve it. ” 


54 


The Iron Stair 


“Thank you, sir. But my life here seems all 
holiday. There’s nothing to tempt me away, sir, 
unless you’d like me to run up to — Manchester?” 

‘ ‘ Why Manchester ? ’ ’ 

“I thought, sir, that the young lady, and her 
intended marriage, had some interest for you?” 

“The young lady represents a big black hat, and 
a loose wave of fair hair. That’s all I’ve seen of 
her. ” 

“Exactly, sir. But there’s more interest in 
what one doesn't see, than in what one does. 
Leastwise where women is concerned. ” 

“You’re a rip. Chaff ey! I shall have to remon- 
strate seriously with you.” 

“No, sir. The sex has no attractions for me. 
I wouldn’t exchange your service, sir, not for 
anything in petticoats.” 

“Flattering to the sex. But I don’t want to 
put you to the test. Chaff ey. ” 

The valet paused at the door. His face was 
imperturbable as ever. 

“Am I to go to Manchester, sir? You didn’t 
say?” 

“Go — where you like, man! If it pleases you 
to play amateur detective, one place is as good as 
another. ” 

“Not exactly, sir. But having started the matter 
in London, it seems a pity to drop ic. I think I did 
find a — a object of interest for you, sir, at last.” 

“Confound you! I’m inclined to wish you 
hadn’t. ” 


A System — and Its Principles 55 


“I’m sorry for that, sir. But if I may be 
excused for reminding you, you sort of put 
it to me, sir, to do something to rouse you to real 
things.” 

“Well, this is real enough. And I suppose 
having started an interest I must prove whether 
it will continue interesting?” 

“I think it will, sir. I’ll go and see to the car 
myself, if you don’t want anything more?” 

“All right. ” 

“There’s road maps in the writing table drawer, 
sir, left hand. Weymouth’s about a hundred and 
twenty-eight miles. What time shall the car come 
round, sir?” 

“About two-thirty,” answered his master care- 
lessly, as he opened the drawer indicated. 

The door closed, and he remained standing 
there staring at the lines and names of the route 
indicated. He folded the map again, and for a 
moment stood looking round his room ; its harmon- 
ious proportions, its artistic colouring, its generous 
company of books which filled the low shelves 
around the walls. 

He took a turn up and down, asking himself if 
he was not a fool to desert such comfort and such 
company? For in his mind a conviction was 
growing that the object in life he had so long 
desired might become more imperative in its 
demands than at first seemed possible. Yet it 
struck him as in keeping with his various idiosyn- 
crasies that he should have taken up the case of a 


56 


The Iron Stair 


stranger as more important than the social eccen- 
tricities of personal friends. 

“Any one would think I was mad,” he said, 
bringing his walk and his reflections to an abrupt 
halt. “Well — don’t scientists say we’re all that, 
on one point or other. I suppose, if I really wished 
to sift this matter out, I’d go to those relatives of 
the boy, in Manchester, and And out if there was 
any animus against him, or any hope of clearing 
up the mystery? As it is I’m investigating His 
Majesty’s strongholds of crime on a plausible 
excuse, and with a view to discovering whether the 
punishment is deserving of the offence!” 


CHAPTER V 

“his step seemed light and gay” 

Aubrey Derringham took occasional “twenty- 
mile” spurts out of his car, when a clear road, and 
no disturbing traffic, tempted him. He had a brief 
rest at Salisbury, and started fresh and keen over 
rolling plain and Roman roads by way of Bland- 
ford and Dorchester. 

The sea spread like a glittering web below the 
cliffs, as he at last dropped from the heights, and 
followed the steep road to the curve of the bay. 
He then drove along the esplanade. The clean 
old-fashioned town was basking in the glow of sun- 
set. The sands and promenade were thronged 
with holiday folk. At the end of the long sea 
frontage he could see the heights of the Nothe, and 
the outlying “Bill” of Portland. He slowed 
down, and then drew up at the Gloucester. Hav- 
ing engaged a room, and delivered his car to the 
mercies of the garage, there remained only to 
bathe, and dress, and dine. 

The long hours in the open air had braced his 
energies and sharpened his appetite. He secured 
a table in the window, and glanced round at the 
57 


58 


The Iron Stair 


various occupants of the dining-room. There 
were not many. The usual British family party 
who cling to hotel comforts on an annual holiday, 
and a few scattered individuals who might be of 
naval or military importance. That was all. 
The stout mother and over-dressed daughters 
threw glances of curiosity at the solitary young 
man in his correct evening dress, and with that air 
of detachment from his surroundings that marked 
him from the tourist proper. Possibly they were 
indulging hopes of acquaintanceship with some- 
one who had scribbled “Hon. A. Fitzjohn Der- 
ringham” in the visitor’s book, and had driven 
himself in his own car from London. 

Dinner over, Aubrey sauntered out on the 
esplanade, and strolled along to the harbour. A 
beguiling boatman induced him to take a row 
round the Nothe headland which forms the 
southern point of the harbour. From there he 
could see Portland lying like a crouched lion in its 
impregnable lair. The Government dockyards, 
and the curious stretch of the Chesil Beach showed 
dimly under the clear sky, and by the illumination 
of the vessels and warships in the Roads. Aubrey 
found his boatman communicative. He had lived 
in the place for thirty years. He knew all the 
points of interest, and discussed submarines and 
destroyers and training ships with his passenger. 

Aubrey questioned him as to the great prison 
frowning in gloomy isolation on the heights above. 
It surprised him to learn that a complete town 


His Step Seemed Light and Gay 59 


lay at the base of that rocky tableland. A place 
of many inhabitants, shops, gardens, dwelling 
places. Commerce and life rejoicing in immunity 
from the rigours and horrors above. From the 
edge of the town stretched that mysterious and 
most dangerous ridge called the Chesil Beach. 

“Pebbles and stones for seventeen miles,” said 
Aubrey’s informant. “And forty feet high, sir. 
No one can say how it came there, and the pebble 
varies in size from a potato to a horse bean. You 
can walk on the top of the ridge right along to 
Bridport. Not that I’d be advisin’ it, sir. If 
any one does try they find they’ve had enough 
walking for the rest o’ their nat’ral life. ” 

“Do the convicts ever try to escape?” enquired 
Aubrey. 

“They has tried, now and then. But it never 
comes off, sir. No one could get away from there. 
You’ll see for yourself if you’re thinkin’ o’ visitin’ 
the prison. ” 

“Do many people visit it?” asked Aubrey. 

' ‘ Oh, yes, sir. Heaps on ’em. I don’t know what 
interests ’em. It’s a fearful high hill to climb to 
begin with, and you can’t see much o’ the convicts 
as they do all of the stone quarrying within the 
walls. And there’s warders everywhere. And if 
so be as any one walks two or three times past the 
gates he’s watched with suspicion. I’ve ’eard 
there was an escape attempted about five or six 
years ago. The man got off in a fog, and somehow 
made his way down through the town, and to the 


6o 


The Iron Stair 


Chesil Beach. Some says he was caught, and 
some that he fell into Deadman’s bay, as ’tis called. 
I couldn’t rightly say what happened. They 
keeps such things dark of course, sir. Myself I 
don’t see how any one could escape what with them 
cliffs on one side and armed warders at signal boxes 
all the way to the road, and no way of getting off 
save through the town, where, of course, the dress 
’ud give ’em away. A cousin of mine is one of the 
warders up there. Terrible monot’nus the life. 
He says as ’ow he nearly goes off his chump some- 
times. You’ll see the Church if you goes up there, 
sir. Saint Peter’s. All built by the prisoners. 
Stone work, carving, everything. Surprisin’ what 
they can do when they’ve a mind for honest work. 
They ’ave a choice o’ eight or nine trades, I’ve been 
told, and the workshops is something wonderful. ” 

Aubrey listened with increasing interest . It was 
new to hear that prison life had its ambitions and 
compensations. He had pictured chained gangs 
at hard and toilsome labour. It seemed strange 
to learn of individual choice, and lighter forms of 
workmanship than stone breaking. 

He remained on the water till ten o’clock, 
encouraging his loquacious friend to tell him all he 
knew of the place so beloved by George III. and 
turned by a royal whim into a fashionable seaside 
resort. That its glories had departed was evident. 
The South coast had sprung into favour without 
drawing Weymouth into any remarkable promi- 
nence. But it had a charm of its own that May 


His Step Seemed Light and Gay 6i 

night as the mojn silvered the old stone houses, 
and the quiet waters reflected the lights of yachts 
and steamboats. 

Aubrey paced slowly to and fro before the hotel 
front, enjoying the change from London turmoil. 
The crowd of pleasure seekers had left the sands; 
the band had ceased playing. The air was de- 
liciously cool and soft. 

‘‘How much we sacrifice for pleasure,’* he 
reflected. “If it is pleasure, to eat unwholesome 
food, and too much of it, and stand for hours in 
crowded rooms listening to a babel of voices, or 
attempting to steer through a giddy romp called 
‘dancing.’ And then the Club, and the last 
scandal, and the last unnecessary drink, and 
home to sleep away the morning hours, and get 
up and dress, and go through it all again! No 
one the better for it all, many very much the 
worse!” 

Yet despite the philosophical reflections he 
suddenly asked himself why he was idling here; 
what reason he could give for such a freakish 
enterprise? It seemed as if the Aubrey Derring- 
ham he knew had become a stranger desiring fresh 
introduction. He paced to and fro and looked 
over the sea and across to that crouching headland. 
To what trouble he had gone for a mere whim. 
For the sake of following up a phase of life hitherto 
unknown and unknowable. 

It was unaccountable, if he tried conventional 
explanations, but when he looked at it from the 


62 


The Iron Stair 


standpoint of the importance of human life it 
took on another aspect. He turned from the 
view of curving bay and walked slowly towards the 
end of the promenade. It was almost deserted. 
He passed the stiff row of lodging houses, and came 
to an asphalted walk and some modern pleasure 
grounds with seats and tennis courts. 

Before him lay the old coastguard station, and 
above under the young moon rolled the great 
sloping downs; chalky patches like the white 
crests of waves breaking the green monotony of 
their bare expanse. He could trace the great 
equestrian figure on the slope, supposed to be 
that of royal George on horseback, paying the 
town the doubtful compliment of turning his back 
on it. Farther on came gardens of modem houses 
sloping down to the cliff walk. Low iron railings 
separated them from publicity. Some of the 
windows opened on a verandah or a terrace, and 
the rooms within could be seen distinctly. 

As Aubrey passed along he noted one room. It 
was lit by a gas pendant over its centre table, 
and sitting at the table, her head bent on her 
hands, was a girl. Before her lay a heap of 
newspapers. She seemed the only occupant of the 
room. Something in her attitude and the droop- 
ing lines of her figure spoke of dejection or trouble. 
Involuntarily Aubrey stopped and gazed without 
thought of intrusion. He saw her lift her head, 
and dry her eyes with her handkerchief. Then she 
rose and seemed to call out an answer to some i 


His Step Seemed Light and Gay 63 


enquiry. He heard the clear tones of her voice: 
‘‘I’m coming directly.” 

She raised her arm, extinguished the light, and 
came to the open window. A moment she stood 
there, her white gown showing against the dark- 
ness, then she ran out and over the green stretch of 
lawn and so to the edge of the railings. 

Aubrey started, suddenly conscious of a breach 
of good manners in thus intruding upon another 
person’s privacy. He was moving on, but the 
girl called softly through the dusk: “George, is it 
you?” 

“No, ” he answered impulsively. 

She leant over the railings. “I — oh, I’m sorry! 
I was expecting a friend. I thought ” 

“I was lingering here, tempted by the beauty of 
the evening,” said the young man. “Is it a 
private road? I’m a stranger to the place. ” 

“No,” she said, “it’s not private. This is a 
new part of Weymouth; the road goes on to the 
coastguard station.” 

“I’ve strolled further than I intended,” said 
Aubrey. “But this bay is a good excuse. ” 

“It is very beautiful,” she answered, but the 
tone of dejection was evident in the words, and 
rendered them meaningless. He felt he had no 
excuse for lingering there, or continuing conversa- 
tion, and yet he wanted to see the face of the 
speaker. It was in shadow ; its outline was youth- 
ful ; but the hair and colouring were vague. The 
simple white dress clung about a slender shape, 


64 


The Iron Stair 


and that slenderness and youth made him curious 
as to the special trouble her previous attitude had 
signified. 

Was it connected with a love affair? Was 
“George,” the expected, its hero, and was a broken 
appointment the cause of those tears he had un- 
wittingly beheld? 

Her voice broke over his silence in frank and 
simple curiosity. 

“You said you were a stranger. Have you 
come to stay, or are you merely waiting for the 
Channel boat?” 

“The Channel boat,” he echoed vaguely. 

“Jersey and Guernsey. Many people stay a 
night before crossing.” 

' ‘ Oh, yes, of course ! But I ’m not crossing. I ’ ve 
only motored down from town to have a look at 
Portland. I’m staying at the Gloucester.” 

She repeated the word — “Portland?” Then 
asked: “Are you interested in that?” 

‘ ‘ Not specially. But I happen to have an order, 
and I’ve never seen a convict prison, that’s all!” 

“A convict prison!” He saw the white fingers 
close over the dark rail against which she stood. 
“It’s very horrid! One can’t get away from it if 
one lives here. I — I hate it! . . . From my 
window I see it, always lying out there, a hateful, 
hideous thing ! Always reminding one of horrors ! 
The men come in gangs. I’ve seen them at the 
station — brought here. I’ve seen them taken 
away to other places as cruel. Ever since I was 


His Step Seemed Light and Gay 65 


a little child this place has been associated with 
those chained gangs; those sullen figures; the 
hopelessness of it all!” 

He was silent. 

“It’s bad enough,” she went on, “when one 
only looks at it, as a stranger, unconcerned with 
one of those fettered souls, but ” 

She broke off suddenly. Aubrey Derringham’s 
thoughts pictured the weeping figure, the scattered 
papers, the sad young voice. 

“I hope, ” he said gently, “that the meaning of 
Portland is not a personal one — for you?” 

“Personal? You mean that any one I know 
. . . Oh, no! Thank God! There’s no one 
there — not yet . . . ” 

The disjointed fragments of speech were sharply 
detached ; the tone of her voice had grown harsher. 
Aubrey felt he ought to take his leave ; that he had 
no right to be here carrying on a conversation with 
an unknown girl, in a strange place, at an uncon- 
ventional hour. And yet he lingered. That queer 
''not yet,'' seemed pregnant with foreboding. 
And the girl herself was labouring under stress of 
excitement that made her self -revealing. 

“Not yet? I hope such a fate may never befall 
you. ” 

“ Oh ! ” she cried suddenly. “It has ! It has ! ’ ’ 

Like a bow overstrung her strength gave way; 
she was clinging to the railings and weeping in the 
heart-broken desperate fashion of a child who has 
never learnt to control an emotion. 


66 


The Iron Stair 


Aubrey Derringham was perplexed. This was a 
situation for which experience had no precedent. 
He stood there helpless before a storm he had 
unconsciously raised. He was terribly distressed. 

“Pray, pray, don’t cry so!” he said, in that 
foolish man-consoling fashion, which seems to look 
upon feminine emotion as a supply fitted with 
special taps to be turned off at will. “I’m sorry 
if I said anything ” 

“Oh, no, it wasn’t you!'' She spoke between 
sobbing breaths. “I don’t know who you are! 
I don’t care! Aren’t there times when one seems 
to get straight out of conventional swaddling 
bands ? When all the ordinary petty things look — 
just petty? When one wants to speak out just as 
one feels and thinks?” 

“Yes, ” he said. 

“And that’s how I felt, and feel! I’m in great 
trouble and — it’s partly my own fault. That 
doesn’t help though, does it ? But I was expecting, 
hoping for, someone who- had promised to help, 
and — he hasn’t come!” 

“That d d George!” thought Aubrey. 

Aloud he said: “I know we’re strangers. I 
know I haven’t exactly the right to be keeping 
you here talking to me, but, as you say, circum- 
stances are sometimes too strong for civilized 
artifices. Perhaps this is such an occasion? I 
wonder if I could be of any help to you ? I wonder 
if I might say that I’d willingly be of such help if 
only — only you could trust me?” 


His Step Seemed Light and Gay 67 


'‘You’ve a nice voice,” said the girl frankly. 
“I can’t see your face distinctly, but your voice 
rings true. Would you mind — shaking hands ? ’ ’ 

Somewhat surprised at the request Aubrey 
Derringham took the slender white hand frankly 
extended and clasped it as frankly. 

She released his. “Thank you, that’s all right. 
I always judge new acquaintances by the way they 
shake hands. There’s character in it, you know. 
Your grasp is just right. Firm and assuring. I 
could trust you. ” 

“Perhaps it’s as well ‘George’ isn’t here,” 
thought Aubrey. 

Aloud he said: “If you feel that, couldn’t you 
tell me what’s troubling you?” 

“No,” she said, “not tonight. I must go in. 
But tomorrow — I’ll see you tomorrow — if you 
like?” 

Aubrey remembered that he was returning to 
London, after going over the prison. But he only 
said: “What time?” 

The girl debated a moment. Then she said: 
“Five o’clock. I’m staying here with an old 
governess. I used to come to her school. She’s 
given it up, and lives there ” — (nodding back to the 
house). “I’ll meet you just beyond the road. Per- 
haps you will tell me about — the life inside those 
walls? I’d like to know.” 

Aubrey thought it a surprising announcement. 
But the whole adventure, if it deserved the name, 
was surprising. Even while her last words echoed 


68 


The Iron Stair 


in his ears she was gone. A white slender shape 
flitting over the sward and melting into the 
shadows of the shadowy house. He heard the 
closing of the long French window, the turn of a 
key. Then, as he waited, a light flashed in a 
room above. He remembered what she had said 
about her window looking over to that menacing 
monster crouched low on its narrow neck of land. 
Was that her room? For a few moments he 
walked up and down the strip of asphalt, wonder- 
ing if the echo of his steps was audible, half hoping 
she might raise the blind and look out. But 
nothing happened, and he at last retraced his steps 
to the hotel. Only when he reached it did he 
remember that they had had no clear vision of each 
other. That they were ignorant of names, or any 
identifying sign. 

“But I think Fd know her,’' he said. “Even 
if a dozen other girls were strolling on that road. 
I suppose I’ll not get back to town, unless I make 
a night journey of it. ’’ 

He entered the hotel, took a whiskey and soda 
in the smoking-room, and then retired. 

As he was unfastening a collar stud, one of those 
temperamental storms to which he was subject 
swept over his mind. “What the devil does it all 
mean? Why am I here? What am I letting 
myself in for? I, who hate girls!” 

The more he thought of that meeting the less 
he could explain it. To his fastidious mind it 
seemed in the worst possible taste. 


His Step Seemed Light and Gay 69 


Talking to a girl over a wall like any seaside cad 
who dispenses with introduction; accepting the 
suggestion of a second meeting? Never in his 
life had he been guilty of actions so irregular, where 
a girl was concerned. With women of the fast 
and loose type it was different. They knew 
what they were about, they could take care of 
themselves. But — this girl was of a type hitherto 
unmet, and untabulated. 

Why did she wish to meet a total stranger again? 
And who was the man she had expected to meet, 
and who had failed to keep his appointment? 
These questions buzzed in his brain as he took off 
his evening clothes and tossed them here and there. 
He forgot that the invaluable Chaffey was not at 
hand to brush, press, and fold. He almost forgot 
why he had come here at all. He was hearing a 
girrs voice; soothing a girl’s grief, of whose source 
and nature he was ignorant; wondering about a 
face dimly seen, and which he was pledged to 
recognize by light of day. 

And he was going to recognize it. He was 
going to find out what special grief, or perplexity, 
was racking that young heart, and had driven it 
to confide in a stranger. 


CHAPTER VI 


*'down the iron stair” 

Aubrey Derringham leamt from the hall 
porter that he could take his car over to Portland, 
instead of going by train, and climbing the 
steep hill afterwards. 

He ordered it round from the garage, and told 
the manageress he would retain his room for 
another night. Then he drove to the post-office, 
and wired to Chaffey that he was not returning to 
town as arranged. After which he set forth for 
that visit of inspection which had promised a new 
interest in his practically unoccupied life. 

^‘Fortune’s Well” seemed to him an ironical 
designation for the island’s capital, and he glanced 
with some amusement at the piled-up houses, and 
steep sloping streets. The ascent went on and 
upwards to the Portland Arms, again of George 
III. importance. An impregnable fort with 
heavy guns showed itself on the left, but his 
way led still higher to that stretch of tableland 
with its network of quarries, its hideous machinery, 
and dreary grey loneliness. He slackened speed, 
and gazed around. 


70 


Down the Iron Stair 


71 


It was here that men had worked like dumb 
helpless brutes for desolate years. Here where 
the rough blood-stained criminal and the educated 
gentleman were linked together by common shame. 
Here where agonies of longing and tears of blood 
were alike unavailing to alter one rash act of a 
lifetime. Here too, perchance, innocence had 
worked by side of guilt and vainly prayed for 
release. Such things had been and would be 
again. 

What a twisted web was life. How queer 
its patterns, how intermingled its threads and 
skeins ! 

He changed speed, and sent the car forward, 
past the narrow street of dingy houses and poor- 
looking inns, that fronted the high stone walls of 
the prison yards, where the men worked at what 
the quarrymen excavated. He saw the queer little 
sentry-boxes, each with its armed patrol, but of the 
convicts he saw nothing. The walls were too high. 
Only from some upper window of one of the houses, 
or inns, could the interior of the stone works be 
seen. He inquired for the Governor’s house, and 
sent in his card and letter of introduction. He 
learnt that the official himself was over at the 
prison, but a subordinate, recognizing govern- 
ment seal and importance, conducted the visitor 
through the great iron gates, and left him in charge 
of a warder. 

Aubrey Derringham looked around with vague 
curiosity. Presently the Governor came out and. 


72 


The Iron Stair 


after a brief conversation, took him within the 
great building, and instructed another warder to 
conduct him over it. 

For the next two hours Aubrey Derringham felt 
as if he had strayed into a new world. A place 
such as imagination, or invention, had never 
portrayed. A place of iron system, harsh rules, 
cold prudence, stem environment. Here, watched, 
guarded, controlled, were some eight hundred 
prisoned lives. Each condemned to some daily 
ordeal, more or less distasteful. Each chafing 
against the all iron bondage recklessly challenged, 
and henceforth the Nemesis of such recklessness. 
Here were criminals by reason of Fate, or environ- 
ment, or heredity. Beings bmtalized by nature’s 
harsh laws, or life’s unequal service. Men who 
passed him with scowling brows and lowered eyes. 
Men young, old, middle-aged. Some hardened by 
crime and proud of achievements, others trapped 
by force of circumstance, or led into error by one 
of those human passions that prey on men’s souls, 
and wreck them for sheer malevolence of Destiny, 
so it would appear. 

It was not the official’s place to satisfy curiosity, 
or give more than general information, but Aubrey 
Derringham knew that the Majesty of the Law 
would be something more than a name to him 
henceforward. 

It stood forth as a relentless Inquisition. A 
Force necessitated by the very Civilization it 


Down the Iron Stair 


73 


safeguarded; the result of that civilization as well 
as its guardian. 

He learnt of rules and discipline. Of the routine 
of life as these chained and lawless beings knew it. 
A routine unthinkable to his own experience, the 
fruits of penal economy, the carefully wrought 
machinery of State and policy. His interest grew 
along with his knowledge of facts. What he 
heard, what he saw, as he wandered from cell to 
cell, from kitchen to workshop, from chapel to 
infirmary, filled his mind to the exclusion of all 
else. 

Chaffey had thrown side-lights of personal 
experience on the subject, but Chaffey had not 
been incarcerated for years in an impregnable 
fortress, where every locked gate, and chained 
door, and barred window spoke of despair and 
hopelessness. For to places like this came only 
the law’s worst offenders. Men to whom life, 
or honour, or property were never sacred. Men 
who gloried in records of crime as others might 
glory in records of honourable industry. 

Aubrey Derringham was conscious of sickness 
of heart as the last key grated into its lock. What 
must it be to enter such a place for the first time? 
What must it be to enter it conscious of wrongful 
conviction ? Chafing, maddened, hopeless, as those 
fierce souls who risked death to escape, and sought 
death to end despair. He remembered the story 
of that prisoner implicated in a fraud, and made the 
scapegoat of more skilful accomplices. How he 


74 


The Iron Stair 


had cursed and prayed and struggled and suffered 
with a memory of seventeen of such years ever 
before him. How one day passing along the 
gallery leading from one range of cells to another 
he had flung himself over before the horrified 
warder could fathom his intent. 

'‘Suicide in a prison” seemed a fitting record for 
a desperate soul, unable to suborn human justice, 
or secure human aid. 

“Yes, some on ’em takes it hard, precious hard, ” 
the warder had said. He had a twenty years’ 
record of prison guardianship, and yet retained 
some human sympathy. 

To him Aubrey Derringham had put that ques- 
tion as to possibilities of escape. A grim smile 
answered it. “Not from Portland, sir. Never 
from Portland. ” 

And looking around, and listening to rules and 
regulations attending even “privileges” outside 
the gates, Aubrey felt the man was speaking the 
truth. 

A verse haunted him; the inspiration of a soul 
desperate as these. 

And down the iron stair we tramped 
Each to his separate HelV 

He recalled two words, spoken by that girl whom 
he was to meet in a few hours’ time. Not yet, ” 
she had said. Was someone whom she knew, for 
whom she was suffering, destined to this Hell ? It 


Down the Iron Stair 


75 


almost seemed so, judging from her grief and her 
strange words. 

They shared a common interest. Possibly for 
that reason she desired to hear what he had learnt 
of this impregnable fortress and its hopelessness. 
He felt he could say nothing cheerful, nothing to 
alleviate any fear or anxiety on her part. He 
wondered vaguely who it was that she had expected 
with the news last night? Who it was to whom 
those two words applied so significantly ? Not yet. 
He refused the Governor’s proffered hospitality 
and returned to Weymouth. Making a detour of 
the outer boundary of the town he ran through 
Wyke and its ancient village. Then past the 
estuary and on to Abbotsbury. There he lunched, 
and then visited the famous Swannery. After 
that he returned to his car and drove back to the 
Gloucester. It was half-past four. He had time 
only to brush off dust and change his cap for a hat. 
Then, with a queer feeling of “doing the thing one 
ought not to do, ” he set off for his unconventional 
appointment. 

The sky had clouded, and seemed to threaten 
rain. He walked briskly down the length of the 
Parade, and then took the 'nner road to the left 
of Grenville Gardens. Arrived at the end of the 
houses he looked down the long road skirting the 
sea, and extending to the old coastguard station. 
There were many figures walking, cycling, or 
sitting on the miniature pebble ridge which formed 
a sort of rampart to encroaching tides. He 


76 


The Iron Stair 


paused and scrutinized them in turn. None 
offered any suggestion of the slim white-gowned 
girl who had asked him to meet her. A feeling of 
annoyance took the place of curiosity. Had she 
intended only to make a fool of him? Treat him 
as she would treat one of the seaside ‘‘bounders” 
who forced acquaintance on any girl they chanced 
to meet ? 

Yet it was she who had made the advance; who 
had proposed the meeting. 

He sauntered slowly on, glancing at each figure 
he passed. Conscious of much criticism of many 
girls, yet convinced she was not one of them. On, 
and still on he walked ; the sound of the sea in his 
ears, a sullen resentment in his heart. 

Why had he promised to come? Why had he 
not carried out his original intention and returned 
to town ? He looked at his watch and found it was 
a quarter past five. He turned back and retraced 
his steps. Perhaps he had come too far? She 
might be at the upper end where the gardens 
joined the road. His glance travelled far ahead of 
his feet, but no waiting figure showed itself. With 
a hot thrill of anger at his own folly Aubrey 
Derringham walked back to the Parade. ‘ ‘ Serves 
me right for being such a fool!” he told himself, 
and vowed “never again” with all a man’s hatred 
of such an experience. It was his first, and he 
owned the mature age of thirty. All the more 
reason to be angered and ashamed. That hand- 
clasp, that assurance of trust — what had they 


Down the Iron Stair 


77 


meant? Less than nothing, so it seemed. He 
vainly tried to clothe that phantom of the night 
with any reality now that daylight and expectation 
had shown no sign of her. 

Well, no matter. He would dine, and order the 
car, and return. He loved motoring at night 
when the roads were free, and police traps im- 
probable. A sudden splash of rain however 
reminded him that storm and an open car did not 
exactly spell enjoyment. London was a hundred 
and thirty miles distant, and possibly Chaffey 
would not be at his room after receiving that 
morning’s telegram. The Fates were against him 
for once. He had better make up his mind to 
remain, and start early the next morning. A run 
in the first cool sunny hours of the day was, if 
anything, more enjoyable than a moonhght 
journey without a moon. 

His indecision lasted him through a drenching 
shower, and alternated with the smothered 
humiliation he vainly opposed. He went into the 
smoking-room and read the papers, and smoked 
innumerable cigarettes. The stout old gentleman, 
with the pretty wife and curious daughters, 
endeavoured to make conversation, but Aubrey 
Derringham was terse and unapproachable. He 
didn’t want to talk to strangers. He felt he had 
nothing in common with Brummagem millionaires, 
and their local importance. 

He left the smoking-room and went into the 
entrance hall. There he stopped suddenly. A 


78 


The Iron Stair 


sense of relief and embarrassment surged through 
his brain. He caught sight of a slender black 
figure, heard an eager voice. It was she, and here. 
As he paused she caught sight of him; hesitated, 
then advanced. 

“I’m sure I’m right. You are — I mean I didn’t 
know yoiu: name — I could only ask for the gentle- 
man who arrived yesterday, in a motor car, and 
was staying till tomorrow. I — Oh, where can I 
speak to you for a moment? ” 

She glanced round at the surprised faces of the 
porter and a waiter, and the manageress at her 
official desk. Aubrey miumured something about 
“drawing-room,” and led the way there, fervently 
hoping the stout lady and her daughters were not 
its occupants. His anxious glance assured him it 
was vacant. He offered the girl a chair, but she 
walked to the window and sat down on a low couch 
beside it. 

“I couldn’t meet you,” she said abruptly. 
“At least I’d have been half an hour late. I 
could hardly expect you to wait so long. Did 
you go?” 

“ Yes, ” he said, conscious of a sudden warmth in 
his face, and annoyed that he should be conscious. 
“ But — I didn’t wait. ” He said it to save his self- 
respect, and yet he told himself that she would 
have been worth waiting for. 

“I’m glad,” she said, clasping and unclasping 
her hands in a nervous fashion. “I don’t ask 
what you think of me. Somehow it doesn’t seem 


Down the Iron Stair 


79 


to matter. . . . I’ve heard what I wanted to 
hear.” 

He looked the surprise he could not express. 
No words seemed to fit the situation. 

“I forgot all about you,” she went on frankly. 
‘‘And then when I remembered it was too late. I 
came here, on the chance. I remembered you said 
‘the Gloucester.’” 

Then she rose abruptly. “Well, that’s all. I 
suppose you went to that place today?” 

“Yes. I found it very interesting.” 

“Interesting! You can say that! What if 
anyone you knew, who had been dear to you, and 
whom you saw helplessly trapped, caught, put 
away there, out of God’s sunlight, out of decent 
life ...” 

Her voice broke. She turned to the window and 
looked with fierce unyouthful eyes over the grey 
waters of the bay. A low ominous growl of 
thunder broke the stillness, a splash of rain blurred 
the windows. 

Aubrey was conscious of painful embarrassment. 
Everything about the girl was so strange, so 
utterly unlike any experience of any other of her 
sex, that he was inclined to think grief had un- 
hinged her brain. Yet, amidst all his bewilder- 
ment, he thought how strange it was that both 
their minds should be running in the same groove. 
A personal interest in a criminal offence, and its 
consequences. 

“I’m sorry,” he began awkwardly 


8o 


The Iron Stair 


She held out an impulsive hand. “Oh! don’t 
mind me. I’m distracted! There’s no one who’ll 
speak of it, except in their own prejudiced way. 
And it was so sudden! So awful! He was like 
my brother. . . 

Aubrey started. He looked at the bent head, 
caught the sweep of fair hair loose over brow 
and ear. Memory brought back that scene in 
court. A stern red-faced man; a girl’s despairing 
figure. 

“Are you Miss Jessop?” 

“ Yes. ” She looked up at him as if questioning 
how he knew. 

“I saw you, in the Court that day — ” he went 
on rapidly, “when the case of ” 

“Geoffrey Gale,” she said. “Yes, I am his 
cousin. It was my father who ” 

A gesture finished the sentence. Her tear-filled 
eyes turned again to that outlying fortress, so 
eloquent of meaning. 

“So you were in the Court,” she said suddenly. 
“I wonder if you thought — what everyone else 
seemed to think?” 

“No,” said Aubrey firmly. “The one certain 
thing in my mind was that there had been a mis- 
take. That Geoffrey Gale was innocent. ” 

‘ ‘ Oh, thank you for saying that ! It is a comfort. 
No one pays any attention to me. They think 
I’m only a child, a schoolgirl ignorant of life. 
Father is so angry because I won’t believe any- 
thing against Geoffrey that he sent me away from 


Down the Iron Stair 


8i 


home. The subject is not to be discussed, and I 
will discuss it. I can think of nothing else.” 

“That accoimts for last night,” said Aubrey. 

Then something flashed to his mind. She had 
called out a name. Was it George Gale she had 
expected? If so — He was conscious of sudden 
heart sinking; annoyance, disillusion. Into what 
an imbroglio had that chance visit to the Law 
Courts led him. There seemed an ironical mean- 
ing behind it all. 

“ Last night? Oh, yes. I was expecting Cousin 
George. He did not come — ^until this morning — 
Well, that can’t interest you. But it’s odd you 
should have been in the Court that day, stranger 
that you should share my belief. No one else 
does.” 

“Not his brother?” asked Aubrey. 

“George? No! He seems very sad, and 
shocked, but he thinks everything went to prove 
Geoffrey did it. ” 

“And you think ?” 

“I don’t think,'' she said. “I know!” 

Something in the light and fervour of the young 
face was more eloquent than any words. Aubrey 
found himself wondering how it was that a 
woman’s intuition defied a man’s logic. Before 
that splendour of assurance he was dumb. What 
use to question it? 

“You said you were sent here? It is not your 
home?” 

“Oh, no! Manchester is where father lives. 


6 


82 


The Iron Stair 


But as I have no mother he has kept me at school. 
She — she and father couldn’t get on. When I was 
about six years old she ran away; with a French- 
man, I believe. She was French.” 

Aubrey stared. This was frankness with a 
vengeance. Had they taught her no better at 
school than to throw aside all family conventions; 
its secrets, and disasters? 

“French people are different from us,” she went 
on. “We should not judge them on the same 
grounds. They are not so cold, so strict, so morale. 
I remember my mother. She was lovely, and 
full of life and gaiety. Perhaps that was it. She 
could not stand English prudery. And Man- 
chester ” 

She made an expressive gesture. hon 

morale^ if you like. Anyway that’s how it goes. 
And now I’ve left school, and am going to be 
married. ” 

Aubrey was dumb. 

“ It’s not my wish, ” she went on rapidly. “But 
father has arranged it. He says after this — 
scandal, no one will want to know us. To me, 
that seems little loss, as applied to Manchester. 
Here, it makes no difference. Madame Gascoigne 
has been like a mother to me always. She thinks 
no worse of us for the misfortune. But they all 
want this marriage. They think it so suitable; 
so I’ve agreed.” 

“Agreed? Don’t you feel it’s you who are 
being sacrificed to conventions ! ” exclaimed Aubrey. 


Down the Iron Stair 


83 


She shrugged her shoulders. He knew now from 
where she got her pretty trick of gesture; her 
frank odd speech. 

“What matter! A girl must marry — someone. 
George is kind and good, and he loves me. It 
will amuse me to be a cure's wife. I love the 
country; the peace, the quaint people, the old 
churches and villages. Oh, yes! I have no fault 
to find with my role, Geoffrey was my dear 
brother. In three months’ time I shall be his 
sister — really. ” 

Aubrey Derringham could find nothing to say. 
This girl seemed capable of reducing his brain 
to pulp, and his usual ease of speech to silence. 
Yet there was something in her very outspokenness 
that fie could not rebuke. 

He continued looking at her, wondering why 
they had met? Why a mere whim, born of idle 
curiosity, had had such curious results? For 
here he was, confronted with another actor in the 
drama, by an incident as palpably careless as the 
lighting of a cigarette. If he had not strolled quite 
so far, if a girl’s grief had not touched his heart, if 
a handclasp had not meant — something — that no 
other handclasp had ever meant? 

If — ? But what use to sum up more trivialities ? 
He had reached a blind alley. He would go no 
further. For two years Geoffrey Gale was shut 
away from friend, or help of friendship. And 
this girl was to be his brother’s wife. 


CHAPTER VII 


‘'when love and life are fair’’ 

“The rain is over,” she said suddenly. “I 
must go.” Aubrey started. His thoughts had 
led him to and fro in a maze of speculation. 
He woke to reality with the sense of the day’s 
importance. 

“Oh, please, not yet!” he exclaimed. “I mean 
I haven’t said half of what I wished to say. Last 
night ” 

“Ah, last night!” she interrupted him in her 
impetuous fashion. “It was strange, was it not? 
We seemed friends not strangers. Today it is 
different. I — feel you don’t like me — so much. ” 

“Don’t like you?” he faltered. “What makes 
you say that?” 

“Oh, it is how I feel. I can’t explain. One 
knows some things by instinct. Of course it must 
seem strange to you that I should have spoken, 
or acted, as I did. This morning I felt angry with 
myself. I did not tell Madame Gascoigne — or 
George, ” she added. 

Aubrey laughed; a short mirthless laugh. “Per- 
haps it was as well, ” he said. 

84 


When Love and Life Are Fair 85 


“You have nothing to say to me today,” she 
went on. “You too feel everything is different.” 

“You — are different,” he said impulsively. 

“I? Oh, no! I am always the same. What I 
feel, what I think, that I say. It is not convenahle, 
I suppose. Madame has always rebuked me. 
But there — ” She shrugged her shoulders again. 
“As one is, one is. That is me. And now — ” 
She turned swiftly to him. “I suppose it is adieu. 
I wonder if we shall ever meet again?” 

“Hardly possible,” he said stiffly. 

“Ah, one never knows! Perhaps some day you 
will be driving your motor car over the moors of 
Devon, even as you drove it over those great downs 
yonder. Perhaps it will stop at a little village, 
with an old church, and queer little thatched 
houses, and you will look around and say: ^How 
charming, how idyllic!* And then Monsieur 
le Cure will invite you to see his church, and 
Madame le Cure will ask you to step into her ivy- 
covered presbytere and have a cup of tea, and lo! 
it is I, whom you meet again. It is in books, is it 
not?’* 

“Yes,” he said. “But life isn’t exactly like 
books.” 

“Life is horrid I think. That’s why I shall go 
away, right out of it, with only nature and my 
little parish to concern me — until Geoffrey is free. ” 

“Is his brother very much grieved at his 
sentence?” asked Aubrey. 

“George? Yes, of course. Desole, troubled as 


86 


The Iron Stair 


never before. And he is not strong, poor boy. 
He has what you call heart-affection, maladie de 
C(Bur, Partly for that I am going to marry him. 
He would suffer if I refused. I should not like 
him to suffer.” 

'‘You are a most — extraordinary young lady!” 
exclaimed Aubrey. 

“Am I?” She looked quietly at him. “Other 
people say so too. I suppose I must be. It is the 
French side of me, I expect. ” 

She held out her hand. “I must go now. I 
have taken up your time. It must be near table 
d'hote. Do you go tomorrow? I should love to 
have seen your motor car!” 

“Would you! Well, why not?” exclaimed 
Aubrey eagerly. “I’ll take you for a run in it, 
if you like?” 

“You would! You would! del! But I 
should love that 1 ” Excitement seized her. “ Let 
us go then, tonight, when the moon rises! Oh! 
I have so longed for a motor drive in the moonlight ! 
Over those downs, away into the green heart of the 
country!” 

She clasped her hands. Her eyes, darkly blue 
as violets are, looked entreaty to his own. Of 
convention, propriety, she never seemed to think. 
Aubrey asked himself why should he? 

“Tonight?” He went to the window and 
looked out. “Yes, if you wish. The sky is 
clearing. I think by eight o’clock it will be quite 
fine.” 


When Love and Life Are Fair 87 


“Eight o’clock? It is a hundred hours!” she 
cried enthusiastically. “But I will be ready. I 
will come. Oh! how can I thank you! Never had 
I believed such a pleasure would be mine!” 

Aubrey smiled. “Am I to call at your house? 
What about the fiance ? ” 

“George? Oh, he is gone! He left by train, 
this afternoon. And Madame Gascoigne, she will 
not forbid it. I do as I please in that menage. 
She adores me. When you see her, you will adore 
her.” 

“Am I to see her? What if she refuses?” 

“Why should she? I will tell her it is my wish. 
That is enough. She knows I am in grief. She 
hates me to cry. Anything that will please me for 
a little moment is enough for her. Besides ” 

She paused and took a thoughtful survey of the 
young man. “You are si vrai gentilhommef^ 
she said softly. 

He coloured to the roots of his hair. Her voice 
sounded like a strain of exquisite music. The 
look in her eyes set his pulses beating to an un- 
known rhythm. Never had he felt quite such a 
fool, or quite so happy. 

The girl had gone leaving the impression of her 
bewildering memory to the exclusion of all else. 

Aubrey Derringham did not dress for dinner. 
It seemed hardly worth while when in half an hour 
he would have to get out his car and don leather 
coat and cap. He wondered if the girl had a thick 


88 


The Iron Stair 


wrap, or a motor veil? Would a shop be open 
where he could buy one? He rang for a chamber- 
maid and questioned her. She proffered assist- 
ance, and he gave her half a sovereign for the 
purchase. When he came up from dinner, a parcel 
lay on his dressing-table, which proved itself a 
long filmy grey veil of approved design. Rugs he 
had in plenty, and it was with a thrill of previously 
unknown excitement that he sought his car, and 
gave it personal test and examination. 

The sky had cleared. The air was soft and 
exhilarating. The Mercedes was in perfect con- 
dition and purred contentedly beneath his skilled 
touch. The clock tower on the Promenade was 
pointing to eight as he glided past. Sixty seconds 
brought him to the house the girl had indicated. 
He pressed the hooter. The door was opened 
immediately. She stood there dressed in a long 
woollen jersey and a cap to match. Beside her 
was a white-haired, frail-looking old lady. She 
came out to the car to be introduced as Madame 
Gascoigne. 

The girl clambered in to the seat beside him with 
a joyous greeting. 

“You will have care, morisieur?’’ pleaded the 
old lady. ^ ‘ The child, she is wilful, and one refuses 
her nothing, but she is dear to my heart. ” 

“ I will take every care of her,'’ promised Aubrey, 
wondering if he had strolled into Arcadia, a place 
of simple trust, and frank speech, and unconven- 
tional actions. 


When Love and Idfe Are Fair 89 

He gave the girl the motor veil, and showed her 
how to adjust it over her cap. “It is cold, even 
on a warm night, in an open car, ” he said. 

“Ah — that you should think of that!'' she cried 
ecstatically. She wound the soft folds about her 
head and throat, looking lovelier than ever in their 
shrouding mysteries. Then with a murmured 
farewell, a wave of her hand, they were off, gliding 
along the sea road, and so up to the great rolling 
downs. The dusky evening shadows closed around 
as they sped up and onwards. The girl sat quite 
still save for occasional little soft cries of ecstasy. 

. It astonished Aubrey that anything so familiar 
to himself could be pure unmixed delight to another 
person. He showed off the powers of the car with 
a novel sense of pride. Its magnificent hill flights ; 
its perfect obedience to clutch and accelerator, 
its swift yet perfectly controlled speed. Over the 
white roads they glided, as mysteriously and easily 
as only a perfect car can travel. The world seemed 
their own. The moon rose clear and bright in a 
cloudless sky. The air rushed by like wings of 
living creatures, eloquent with the meaning of 
speed and freedom. Everything around was 
charged with an electric force of sensation, excited 
by novelty. The current of life was fiowing to a 
fuller tide. Just to be, and to breathe, and to feel, 
made up a sense of enjoyment new to both. 

Yet even a perfect car is subject to the hazard 
of accident. Quite suddenly the still air was rent 
by an explosive sound; the car swerved slightly 


90 


The Iron Stair 


to the left, then obeyed the peremptory check of its 
driver. The girl had uttered a startled cry, but 
she sat perfectly still though it seemed as if a 
cannon had been fired behind her. The car 
stopped suddenly. 

“What is it?” she cried. 

“Only a tyre gone. I was afraid of this road. 
It’s been newly stoned.” 

“Oh! can’t we go on any more?” she cried 
plaintively. 

Aubrey laughed. “Why, of course. I’ll put 
it right in ten minutes.” 

He was on the ground and taking off his motor 
coat and rolling up his sleeves before she had quite 
realized what he was about to do. Then she 
flung aside her rugs and got out also. 

“Do you mean to say you can mend it, set it 
going again ? But how wonderful 1 ’ ’ she exclaimed. 

“It wouldn’t be much good my driving a car if 
I didn’t know how to supplement a burst tyre, or 
mend a puncture!” said Aubrey. “I have a very 
clever chauffeur, and he’s taught me as much 
about motor mechanism as would serve a mechanic 
seeking employment. You see this wheel? Well, 
I’m going to put it on, alongside of the other. 
It’s called a Stepney. Praised be the inventor!” 

He had got out the “jack,” and she watched 
him with absorbed interest, as he gradually raised 
the useless wheel, and then fitted the Stepney 
to it. 

“How clever you are!” she murmured ad- 


When Love and Life Are Fair 91 


miringly. ‘‘I didn’t think you could do anything 

of that sort. Your hands ” 

Perhaps they’re not as useless as they look.” 

^ ^ I wouldn’t say they looked — ^useless. Only the 
sort of hands that had never done any sort of work, 
like that.” 

“If you had been where I was yesterday, you’d 
have seen hands as delicate doing harder work 
than adjusting a tyre,” he said. 

“Ah!” — it was a sharp little sound. He 
looked up to where she was standing, her loosened 
veil floating over her shoulders. 

“Are there men — like you in that horrible place? 
You — you did not tell me. ” 

“You never asked. Besides, what use to talk of 
them, or the place? They have all brought them- 
selves under the penalty of broken laws. ” 

“Did you see them in the quarries, working?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are they guarded, chained, watched, as one 
hears?” 

“ Some, the desperate characters, had leg chains; 
not all. ” 

“ Do you know, ” she said suddenly, “what I was 
thinking when we were flying, flying, along across 
the downs, over the roads?” 

“How can I guess your thoughts?” 

“I was thinking if I saw one of those poor 
prisoners how I would help him escape. How I 
would snatch him up in this swift wonderful 
machine, and carry him away, away, where no 


92 


The Iron Stair 


one could find him, no cruel law touch him. And 
as I thought I seemed to see — Geoffrey. ’’ 

Aubrey rose, and began to unscrew the ‘‘jack” 
again. 

“It wouldn’t be possible, my child,” he said 
gently, “to help — Geoffrey, or any one in such a 
way. Every car has a number. It could be traced 
as easily as — as the prisoner it sought to aid. 
Besides, there is a penalty for such aid. ” 

“I wouldn’t care for that!” 

“You wouldn’t like to be deprived of your 
liberty also?” 

“Is that what is done to one for showing a little 
mercy?” 

“The Law doesn’t choose that anyone should 
supply what it denies.” 

“The Law! Ah, I remember those hard men, 
that stem old Judge, the dull, heavy, unfeeling 
jury! That was the Law, and what it said has 
to be, has it not?” 

“Yes. A sentence passed is fixed and unchange- 
able. Very, very rarely has it been altered.” 

“Not if they found out afterwards that the man 
they had condemned was innocent?” 

Aubrey put away his tools, and took up his 
motor coat. “ I have never heard of such a case, ” 
he said. 

“But it’s not impossible; it might happen?” 

“My dear young lady, anything might happen, 
so long as the sky’s above and the earth beneath 
us. Now, the car is ready again, if you will enter. ” 


When Love and Life Are Fair 93 


‘^For how long will you drive me?’^ she asked, 
as she re- tied her veil. 

“That depends on where you want to go. At 
present we are on the way to Wareham, I believe. 
The last milestone said so. ’’ 

“Wareham? It is a market town. I have been 
there, by train. ” 

“Well, shall we turn off somewhere else? Only 
I prefer the main road, at night, as the country is 
strange to me. ” 

“ It is strange to me, like this, she said. “ Oh! 
let us go just on. It doesn’t matter. ” 

“It would matter if we went on — say to Lon- 
don, ” said Aubrey. “I fancy Madame Gascoigne 
would hardly approve. You are a very self-willed 
young person, but even you can’t contemplate a 
whole night’s run in a motor car, with a compara- 
tive stranger. ” 

‘ ^ N ow, you are horrid ! ^ ’ she said. ‘ ^ And talking 
like the prim old people in Manchester talk. How 
I hate Manchester — after thisV^ Her hand swept 
out with a gesture embracing the country round. 
“ But I hate all towns! Don’t you?” 

“Not all,” he said. “I happen to live in 
London. I am very fond of it. ” 

“Fond! Fond of London? That dark, dismal, 
horrible place. All fogs and grey skies, and dark 
streets. And the noise — oh! the terrible noise!” 

“You mustn’t judge it by the Law Courts side. 
Where did you stay?” 

“Somewhere in the Strand, isn’t it called?” 


94 


The Iron Stair 


'‘And is that all you saw of England's capital?" 

“ It was enough for me. Never do I want to see 
it again. Those great dark buildings, those narrow 
noisy streets! And the sad, harassed faces. I 
never saw one smile, I never saw one happy. Oh I 
I was glad to come away!’’ 

“Did you come here, at once, or go back with 
your father?’’ asked Aubrey. 

“I went back, but I became ill. I suffered — 
ah, no one knew how I suffered ! And the doctor 
said Manchester did not agree with me, so my 
father sent me back to Madame. She was glad 
to have me. She loves me as her own child. 
She has retired now, and given up the school, but 
her home, it is always mine, so she says. ’’ 

“Why do you want to leave it, then?’’ enquired 
Aubrey. “If you are happy there, and it is a 
home, why are you going to be — married?’’ 

He hesitated over the word. It seemed 
absurd to picture this prattling innocent child 
a wife. She looked scarcely sixteen, despite her 
tall height. 

“Why? But I told you. It is arranged for 
me. And George has his curacy, and he has loved 
me — always. You see — ^it has to be. ’’ 

Aubrey did not see it at all. He thought there 
was no absolute necessity for the arrangement, or 
for her meek yielding to it. She was so young, 
and her eyes were only a child’s eyes ; trusting and 
innocent. He asked her how old she was, and 
she told him quite frankly. “Seventeen. But 


When Love and Life Are Fair 95 


in three months I shall be eighteen. Then, they 
wish the marriage to take place. ” 

“You say your cousin loves you,’' said Aubrey. 

“But what about yourself? Do you ” 

“Do I love Aiw?” she put in quickly. “Have 
I not said we are as sister and brothers. He, and 
Geoffrey, and I. Of course I love him. Not as 
I do Madame Gascoigne, but that is, of course, 
different. I know George, I have always been used 
to see him at home. My father loves him as a son. 
Oh — ^it is quite well arranged, I assure you. ” 
Aubrey Derringham felt again that odd sense of 
hopelessness. This girl affected him so strangely. 
There was such fascination about her youth and 
simplicity; about that clear unfaltering gaze, and 
that quaint outlook on life. He seemed to see her 
in that Manchester house, rebelling at convention, 
yet playing daughter and sister effectively enough. 
And then had come this shock, and life had turned 
to vital vivid drama. She had been a passive 
spectator of the opening scenes. Had learnt what 

suffering and suspense could mean. And now 

“You are going very slow,” said the voice be- 
side him. “Are you tired of holding that wheel? ” 

“Tired? No, of course not. I was thinking we 
ought to be turning back. We must have been out 
an hour. It will take another to reach the town. ” 
“Only an hour! Oh — I should like to stay out 
all the night, and see the stars fade, and the dawn 
come, and yet be flying on and on, as if time didn’t 
exist!” 


96 


The Iron Stair 


“Has no one ever told you that there are things 
one must not do, although they are perfectly harm- 
less in themselves?” asked Aubrey. 

“If they have told me I didn’t pay any attention. 
Some things in my life are unusual I know, and my 
father thinks I have had too much of my own way. 
But what of that? I’ve never done anything I’m 
ashamed of. Have you?” 

“That’s hardly a fair question. The same rules 
don’t regulate a man’s life and a woman’s. ” 

“Why not?” 

“Because they’re different. The one goes forth 
into the world to battle with life and learn its 
lessons — ^bitter ones — sometimes. And the other, 
she is sheltered and protected, and kept from 
harsh, unlovely things so that her nature may be 
pure and lovely, as herself.” 

“That is all very absurd, you know,” said the 
girl. “Men are good and bad, and so are women. 
That much I know, but the badness seems ever 
so much more fascinating than the goodness. 
My mother — I suppose you would call her bad? 
My father did, and does, and he — oh, he is all that 
is good, and honourable, and uninteresting. Yet 
I don’t love his reality as dearly as I love her 
memory!” 

“You are so young,” said Aubrey feebly. 

“Not too young to think and feel. Besides, I’ve 
read so much, I’m not ignorant. ” 

Her face took on a strange dignity, as he turned 
his bewildered eyes to it. 


When Love and Life Are Fair 97 


“I must say you are the most surprising speci- 
men of your sex I have ever met ! ’^ he exclaimed. 

“Have you met many?” 

“A few hundred, or so.” 

“And have you ever been in love with any of 
them?” 

Aubrey laughed. “’Pon my word I don't 
believe I have. They all bore me, or disgust me, 
after a time. ” 

“Which do I do?” 

“You?” 

“Yes. Do I bore you, or the other thing? It 
didn't sound — nice. Tell the truth now ! ’ ' 

“I hardly know,” said Aubrey. “If I think 
of how you have impressed me it represents a 
series of shocks, more or less startling. You look 
such a child, and yet ” 

“Do go on! I've never heard myself described 
before.” 

“And yet, last night, you seemed a woman in 
your grief, and loneliness.” 

“Last night seems a long way off,” she said. 
“ I don’t think it’s in me to feel very deeply, or very 
long. Something comes to me, or tears at me, and 
then — ^it’s all over, and I forget. I think I must 
be like my mother, only I hope I shan’t fall in love 
with someone after I’ve married George. It would 
distress him I’m afraid. And a clergyman's wife 
must be of good behaviour.” 

“Powers above!” muttered Aubrey. “Did 
ever any man hear the like!” 


7 


VIII 


'‘a hiding-place for fear” 

Unthinking Aubrey Derringham had taken the 
road to Wareham. They passed Wool, and 
crossed the railway line. To the right lay deso- 
late moorland ascending to the cliff heights of 
Durdle Bay, and St. Aldhelm’s Head. The 
moon escaping a bank of clouds shone full and 
clear over the wide expanse. 

‘ ‘ We shall see Corfe ! ” exclaimed the girl. Oh, 
go on, please go on ! There is a gap in the hills, 
and we shall see the Castle! You know it, do you 
not? That old, old ruin of Saxon times. It looks 
so strange, and the village is so ancient. ” 

“ Corfe Castle? No, I have never seen it. ” 

The sound was reminiscent of school days, and 
of English history reduced to digestive tabloids 
for the youthful mind. Obedient to her whim 
he took the road which mounted sharply upwards. 
Then he checked the car, and for once shared the 
youthful enthusiasm of enjoying “a view.” 

For suddenly the old ruin had shown itself. 
Great walls agape, and keep and tower and bastion 
dimly suggested by an outline. Rugged and 
98 


99 


A Hiding-Place for Fear 

defiant it stood on its lonely hilltop ; with sightless 
windows gazing like blind eyes on desolation. A 
strange record of man’s strength, and man’s 
treachery. 

“Beautiful — is it not?” murmured the girl. 
“Oh! I’m glad to see it again, like this. The first 
time it was daylight, a school picnic. They spoilt 
it for me. It was nothing to them. That wonder- 
ful old castle, so old, so old, so old! One’s mind 
can’t believe it! They only laughed, and ran 
races down the slope. Myself — I planned it all; 
the moat, the keep, the drawbridge. It is there, 
between those two towers. How near it seems, 
does it not? And yet there are miles between us. ” 

“And a bad road. I fancy. Besides ” 

He looked at his motor clock. The hands on 
the dial pointed to half-past nine. She followed his 
glance. 

“I suppose we must return? I am sorry.” 
She suddenly clasped her hands. “Oh — when one 
is happy, when one enjoys, why must it always 
end!” 

“You have enjoyed this evening?” he ques- 
tioned. 

“More than anything in my life!” she ex- 
claimed. “ It goes to mark one of its — sensations. 
I mean one of the things one really feels y and that 
one knows one will never regret. ” 

An odd little thrill, a sudden inability to say 
anything quite in keeping with such frank sim- 
plicity stirred Aubrey Derringham’s heart. To 


100 


The Iron Stair 


anyone less frank and innocent it would have been 
easy to affect recognition of a compliment. But 
he could not play man of the world tonight. He 
too felt that there were times in life when the 
simple things were the best; when one turned 
involtmtarily to nature as friend instead of foe. 

He said nothing therefore, and the girl did not 
seem to remark his silence. Her eyes, dark and 
glowing in the soft light, were gazing to where the 
old castle towered in lonely glory. A landmark 
of time and its changes. Her mind was absorbed 
in some dreams of those far-off days. Kings and 
queens and belted knights, and royal vicissitudes. 
Stirring times when a man’s foot was in the stirrup, 
and the sword was in his hand, and life for those 
who lived it was hazardous and therefore sweet. 

At last she drew a deep breath and turned to 
him. “That’s over,” she said. “Let us go 
home.” 

His engine had stopped. He got out and set it 
going. Then backed the car till turning was 
possible, and ran at full speed over the moorland 
road and retraced the route to Weymouth. Not 
a word was spoken between them. From time to 
time he glanced at her absorbed face, as she sat 
with hands clasped on the Jaeger rug, and eyes 
staring straight ahead at swiftly passed turns 
and twists and signposts. Only a browning horse, 
or a stray dog, relieved the picture of still life. 
The cottage windows were dark ; the road deserted. 
It seemed to the girl as if she and her companion 




A Hiding-Place for Fear 


lOI 


and the throbbing swift car that carried them 
through the night were the only things in the world. 
All else was dead, or dumb, or asleep. Never had 
she felt so vividly alive. So conscious of some- 
thing new and wonderful close at hand, yet not to 
be translated into words. That rush through the 
air; the accident; the queer disjointed talk, and 
then that long quiet meditation on the side of the 
desolate moor, in sight of that desolate ruin, what 
a picture they made. Something to be set aside, 
and treasured by reason of its strangeness. Framed 
in beauty and unspoken mystery. 

Then she thought how soon it would be all over. 
He would plunge back into the great swirling 
torrent of life as London and society must mean 
it, and for her there remained only its insignificant 
backwaters. He had been so nice to her too, 
treated her, not as a foolish schoolgirl, but as she 
had always wanted to be treated. No one believed 
she had outgrown childish ideas, but she knew she 
had. She had known it since that fateful day 
when her favourite cousin had turned that agon- 
ized look on her from the prisoner’s dock. She 
knew it now as her heart grew sick and cold with 
every mile that measured a parting. 

Only a few hours ago she had looked upon life 
as a thing settled and ruled for her by wiser heads. 
She had been willing to accept what they had 
decreed; had looked for content, if not for happi- 
ness. But now — a restless dissatisfied spirit was 
at war within her heart, arguing, suggesting. She 


102 


The Iron Stair 


shook herself impatiently, and Aubrey asked if 
she was cold? His voice recalled her to the im- 
mediate present. 

“Cold? Oh no! I was only wondering if I’d 
ever see you again. ” 

“You suggested it, did you not, when Madame 
le Cure was to offer me the hospitality of her 
parish rectory?” 

“Ah — that! It was just foolish nonsense. I 
didn’t know you, I mean. I don’t think I should 
like to see you in my house when I am Madame 
le Cure.” 

“ Indeed? ” he said coldly. “I regret I have left 
so bad an impression. ” 

She turned impulsively. “Bad — im- 
pression, did you say? Mon DieuI How stupidly 
I must have expressed myself 1 No, you are wrong ; 
quite wrong 1 It would not please me that we met 
under my husband’s roof. I might compare him 
with you. Do you see?” 

“What then?” asked Aubrey, half inclined to 
laugh,, and yet uncertain of the wisdom of mirth 
at a crucial moment. 

“What then? Ah! that I can’t say now. I 
have to find out whether he makes me content, 
as one says. ” 

He noted she did not say “happy.” Did she 
really expect nothing more of wedded loVe and 
life than just — content? It added another link 
to the puzzle she had become to him. All his 
knowledge of the world, his experiences, con vie- 


A Hiding-Place for Fear 


103 


tions, instincts, left him only baffled and perplexed 
before this extraordinary girl, who had whirled 
him from surprise to surprise, emotion to emotion, 
only to disconcert him more than ever by an 
admission too flattering to accept. A vain cox- 
comb might have accepted it, and traded on its 
naive betrayal, but Aubrey Derringham was 
essentially what the girl had frankly characterized 
— vrai gentilhomme, 

‘ ‘ Ah, the lights again ! It is over ! ’ ’ 

The girl turned impulsively as she spoke. One 
hand touched the arm of her companion. It was 
good, that long silence, was it not? Only two who 
understand can be together in thought. ” 

Aubrey slackened speed, and looked at the 
beautiful young face, so strangely, unyouthfully 
grave. 

“You don’t even know my name, ” he said, “nor 
I yours. ” 

“Yet we have known each other since last night, 
have we not? That proves what I said. One 
finds a friend by instinct, not by any sort of 
introduction. ” 

“Yes, that must be so, ” he said. 

The car swept round the curve of the road. The 
bay lay to their left, a sheet of molten silver pierced 
here and there by a golden trail of light from the 
moored vessels, or the waiting yachts. 

“It has been beautiful, this night, this drive, 
everything,” she said softly. “And now it is 


104 


The Iron Stair 


adieu. You go back to London tomorrow, do you 
not?’^ 

Something within him tempted him to say he 
was master of his own actions. He need not go 
back on the morrow unless he desired, but quickly 
following that thought came one more prudent. 
What use to continue this acquaintanceship, to 
learn more of this quaintly fascinating child than 
three meetings had shown him? 

Mystery is alliiring, but it is also dangerous. 
A character such as had unfolded itself in so sur- 
prising a fashion was interesting beyond doubt, 
but he was man enough to realize that though 
what one admires may be forgotten, what interests 
one is apt to distturb. And he did not care to be 
disturbed, by a girl, at thirty years of age ! 

“Are you never going to answer? I asked if 
you go back tomorrow?'' 

“Yes," he said abruptly. And then felt angry 
at having signed his own warrant of banishment. 

“So it must be adieu. I don't suppose we shall 
ever meet — again." 

“You may come here sometimes?" he suggested. 

“I wonder? ... I think not. Everything 
will be different. I knew this place as a child, as 
a girl. Somehow I don't want to come back when 
that is all changed." 

He slowed down more and more, trying to 
lengthen the few remaining yards of distance. 

“And what about your name? Am I to know 
it?" 


A Hiding-Place for Fear 105 


‘‘My name? Ah, I forgot! I have two. One, 
my mother gave me, and I love it, and Madame 
calls me it. It is Renee. ” 

“It suits you,” he said softly. “It is a charm- 
ing name.” 

“It is not altogether a girl’s name,” she went 
on. “But I was supposed to be a boy. Mother 
used to pretend. Sometimes I was the little son 
she had so desired. Perhaps had I been so, she 
would not have left me?” 

Aubrey was conscious of sudden hot indignation. 
That a mother, her mother, could have behaved so 
atrociously 1 It was unpardonable. 

“The other name, my father’s name, is Mary,” 
she went on. ‘ ‘ I don’t like it, though it is the name 
of Christ’s own mother. It doesn’t suit me. I am 
not good, I am not a saint. Ma foi I Non ! And 
yet I suppose I must alter all that when I marry 
George Gale.” 

The car stopped. They were at the house, and 
he was gently unfolding the soft folds of the Jaeger 
rug. 

“It’s no use to thank you!” she said abruptly. 
“But I’m sure you know what it has been. Now, 
adieu — mon ami. ” 

“You don’t ask my name?” he said, as he took 
off his thick driving glove, and accepted the frankly 
extended hand. 

“No. I am not curious. I can remember you 
as you are without any silly labels. ” 

He released the slender hand. 


io6 


The Iron Stair 


'T hope,” he said, “your life will be happy. 
And that this first — trouble, may be its last. ” 

“That sounds very nice. But you can’t really 
believe that trouble stops short at one dose, even 
a big one like this? I expect plenty more. It is 
life, I know. What is it Balzac says? ‘ One must 
paint life in tints of Fate.’ And he knew some- 
thing of the human heart, did he not?” 

“You have read Balzac?” 

“But, of cburse! Why not? Madame has him 
beautifully bound, all his wonderful volumes. I 
read them in the last holidays. Cousine Bette, 
and the Peau de Chagrin, and Eugenie Grandet, 
and Cousin Pons. Poor, old, lonely man! Ah! 
that is sad, if you like. To be old, and lonely, and 
unloved. You had better find yourself a wife, 
monsieur, or that may be your fate.” 

She turned the handle of the door and it opened 
suddenly. Aubrey caught sight of her, a slender 
figure standing under the dim gaslight of a narrow 
hall; a loose wave of hair blown from under her 
cap, falling over one flushed cheek. 

Then she waved her hand, and closed the door. 
He drove back to the hotel. 

To think that he had once been bored with life ! 
Had declared it a succession of monotonous days 
without one real interest ! 

Chaffey was feeling a little perplexed. 

The master whom he served so faithfully, loved 
so devotedly, had come back to town a day later 


A Hiding-Place for Fear 


107 


than arranged. More than that, he had come 
back altered in some subtle and indescribable way. 
He was no longer bored, listless, indifferent. On 
the contrary, a curious restlessness had evinced 
itself, demanding active outlet. 

He sought distraction in a confused and hurried 
fashion quite unlike his former lazy indifference. 
He went out a great deal, returned home at un- 
seemly hours; would accept half a dozen engage- 
ments for one evening and endeavour to keep them. 
The season was setting the pace at a reckless ex- 
penditure of time, and money, and human energy. 
Aubrey Derringham tried to keep up with it. No 
more dreaming hours of study and solitude. 
Scarcely even time for those friendly semi-humor- 
ous confabs beloved of the faithful valet. Above 
all, no retirrn of interest in that case which had, 
so it seemed, set the spark to hitherto unkindled 
energies. That subject was closed, so it seemed. 
Chaffey had spoken of his visit to Manchester, and 
his master had listened. But after hearing the bald 
facts of old Jessop’s return to a blameless life, of 
the departure of the favoured nephew to his first 
^‘cure of souls, of the absence of the “young 
lady,” who was to be the partner and sharer in 
such laudable enterprise, he had never returned 
to the subject. Chaffey knew his place better 
than to force it upon him. He ended his informa- 
tion by the remark that prisoners, on good-conduct 
terms, might receive a visit from friends once in 
three months. 


io8 


The Iron Stair 


Aubrey had looked up quietly. ^Ts that so? 
How does one arrange it? ” 

Chaffey gave the details of request, formalities, 
and permission. Then the subject dropped. He 
did not suspect that his master had made a mental 
register of the facts; that at a later time he dis- 
cussed the matter with Joshua Myers, the prison- 
er’s counsel ; that there had sprung up in his mind 
a longing to pay at least one visit to that place 
of incarceration where Geoffrey Gale was detained. 

Meantime the season was hurrying on through 
that melee of operas, dances, picture shows, royal 
garden parties, races, river pageants, which cul- 
minate in Goodwood and expire with Cowes. He 
seemed to be everywhere and at everything worth 
being at. His friends chaffed him for his unusual 
energy. Society mothers regarded him with hope- 
ful eyes. Derringham was really good-looking, 
and interesting when he liked; not half so cynical 
or ill-natured as his reputation. So time sped on, 
and only when he indulged in some long lonely 
‘‘spin” did Aubrey ever let himself think of that 
oddly fascinating child, who had once been his 
companion. He wondered if she was still content 
to leave her fate in other hands? The thought of 
her youth, her absolute unlikeness to the pretty 
frivolous dolls he daily met, and danced and talked 
with, kept her memory a thing apart, and in some 
way sacred. Innocence is one of the most puzzling 
and beautiful attributes of feminine youth. He 
never lost that impression of Renee Jessop’s 


A Hiding-Place for Fear 109 


innocence. Yet he told himself he did not wish to 
see her again. She had had a curiously disturbing 
effect, and any pretence of friendship between a 
man of his experience and a girl of her charm and 
loveliness would be impossible. It could lead 
only to disaster, and he felt no desire to seek trouble 
or to cause it. So it was that he threw himself into 
the frivolous stream of life, and thrust disturbing 
memories aside by the reminder that she might be 
married by now. In any case, her life and his 
must lie apart — henceforward. 

He was running up the steep hill to Hindhead. 
It was a Saturday night, and he had suddenly 
resolved to spend Sunday in that lovely district. 
As he reached the heights above the wonderful 
“dip” he paused, and looked round. It was a 
perfect evening, warm and still ; the scents of pine 
and heather filled the air. After the closeness of 
London the change was delicious. He felt glad 
he had come. But as he paused and drank in the 
serene beauty of air and scene it occurred to him 
that he was very lonely. His pleasures, such as 
these were, seemed always solitary pleasures. 
It was rare to find a soul in unison, a mind attuned 
to his own tastes or feelings. He looked at the 
vacant seat beside him and knew that among all 
the crowds of men and women with whom his life 
and the past three months were associated, there 
was not one whom he would have cared to see in 
that vacant seat. It was odd, very odd. But he 


no 


The Iron Stair 


ran through the catalogue, and again came to 
that conclusion. He drew out his case, and lit a 
cigarette, sitting there by his steering wheel, and 
gazing with sudden discontent at the roseate glow 
of the sky, and the grey shadows gathering in the 
great hollowed bowl at his feet. 

“How she would love this,” he thought, and 
seemed to see again a vivid face, and deep soft eyes, 
and hair that fell across the oval outline of a young 
cheek. 

What was there about this girl that set her apart 
and aloof in his memory? That brought the 
sound of her voice; its rapid utterance, its quick 
flights and fancies so close to his inner senses that 
to think was to hear? Nothing in those past weeks 
had deadened that vivid sense of her. He could 
put it aside for a time, but in moments like these 
it rushed back like a tumultuous force. He felt 
he wanted to know if her resolution held good, and 
yet he had not the courage to seek her. Besides, 
it was no business of his whom she married. 

He flung the cigarette away, and set the car in 
motion. He had wired for a room at the hotel, and 
it was already dusk. “ I wish I could forget her!” 
he muttered savagely. “ She seems to have a trick 
of intruding on my solitude, and I hate it!” 

But did he hate it — really? Would he rather 
have never met that disturbing personality than 
know that his solitude was shared by her? It was 
a difficult question to answer. And the answer 
was not given then, or in the manner he expected. 


CHAPTER IX 


“to help a brother’s soul” 

When romance first flashes across a hitherto 
colourless life it is apt to be disturbing. It makes 
no direct appeal to heart and senses as passion can 
and does make; rather it represents warmth and 
colour hitherto lacking. It is as the subtle fra- 
grance of unseen flowers; a silent appeal to the 
latent chivalry in man, or the softer susceptibilities 
of woman. It sends him to nature, and her to 
poetry; exacerbating and yet fulfilling life. The 
“light that never was on land or sea” gives hints 
of remoter glory. Absence and silence become 
pleaders for a cause, and yet there has been no 
need of its presentation. 

To Aubrey Derringham these “off Sundays,” 
when he escaped the madding crowd and the 
pressure of engagements, were as fragments of 
solitude broken off from the great fabric of social 
insincerities. Removed from their influence he 
indulged in lonely rambles, queer unreasonable 
thoughts, odd fancies of life as it never had been, 
and never could be — for him. 

But when he woke on that Sunday morning at 

III 


The Iron Stair 


1 12 

Hindhead, he suddenly recognized that peace of 
mind was not his for the seeking. Somehow it had 
vanished, leaving only a riotous disorganization 
of thoughts and desires behind it. And in that 
moment he faced the greatest thing in life, and 
knew he must “have it out” with himself, in so 
facing it. 

Without the motive power of love the human 
machine is only a machine running without method. 
Aubrey Derringham had not exactly scoffed at 
love as a weakness, he had ignored it as a force. 
It had seemed perfectly easy to amuse oneself with 
a woman and then — ^forget her. The world was so 
full of women, and they were all so much alike 
considered as a sex. He had reached the safe 
vantage point of thirty years without a serious 
entanglement, or a disturbing influence. And then 
in a moment a girl’s face, a girl’s odd reckless con- 
fessions, had flashed across his mind’s content and 
lo ! — there was content no longer ! 

It was humiliating; it was puzzling; but he had 
to face it as a truth. To learn that however strong 
a man may be individually, a stronger than he 
may force a confession of weakness, and though 
disarming him with one hand, glorify him with the 
other. 

He had spent the morning strolling, lounging, 
lazing in shady hollows, with the aromatic breath 
of heather and pine in his nostrils ; the deep cloud- 
less sky above the inky blackness of the woods. 
And in all those hours he was fighting a desire to 


To Help a Brother's Soul 113 


see this girl once more. To see her while she was 
still — a girl. Before that man, whom he had seen 
only once, but never forgotten, should have set 
the seal and right of possession on her careless 
irresponsible youth. 

He fought the idea in these solitudes as he had 
fought it in crowds, and streets, amidst the babel 
and confusion of fashionable life. And hard as 
was the fight, the longing triumphed. 

He spent an hour consulting maps and routes, 
arguing that there was no need to go back to town ; 
that these long clear nights were made for motor 
runs, and country solitudes. One could select 
one’s route, and go on and on to — Land’s End, 
if one desired. Five hundred miles, or there- 
abouts. A fascinating run. He looked at the 
long list of stopping places; at the bordering 
counties. Surrey, Wilts, Hants, Dorset — Dorset? 
Well, why not? 

A curious tingling warmth came to his cheeks, 
as he asked himself that question; his eyes still 
on Route No. I., and its connecting links with 
No.’s XIV. and XV. 

Abruptly he closed the book, and went back to 
the hotel for luncheon. He read and dozed the 
hot afternoon hours away. At four o’clock he 
ordered some tea, and directed that his bag should 
be brought down. Then he paid his bill and took 
out his Mercedes, and with an exhilarating sense, 
as of truancy from rigid discipline, he sped off and 
8 


The Iron Stair 


114 

away through the bordering lanes, and across the 
wide highroads towards Winchester. 

So do men cheat themselves, all ^^pour le hon 
motif, ” So does Fate weave her webs, and set her 
snares, smiling at the subterfuge which alike en- 
tangles or entraps her victims. 

Aubrey Derringham had never driven quite so 
recklessly as on that July night. But then he 
had never driven to such a fury of stirring pulse 
and mutinous heart-throbs. 

The miles chased each other on the dial of his 
speedometer; the cool air fanned his brow; the 
dust clouds swirled and eddied before his eyes, 
and passed into confused density behind the big 
automobile. And with every mile and every ascent 
and every recurring landmark, his spirits rose, 
and he could have sung aloud for sheer joy of a 
long-denied freedom. 

He stopped twice. Once for some needed re- 
freshment ; again for petrol. 

Then in the cool delicious night he caught sight 
at last of those remembered heights of Purbeck, 
and it seemed to his foolish fancy that the car 
recognized them also ; so softly it glided, so sweetly 
it purred. “Perhaps she will be with us again,’’ 
it seemed to say, and Aubrey wondered how 
owners of perfectly disciplined cars could ever be 
ignorant of their intelligence. 

Across those undulating downs he swept. At 


To Help a Brothers Soul 115 


last before him lay the sheeted silver of the bay, 
shot with enlacing threads of gold from vessels 
and harbour and lighthouse. How familiar it 
looked. His heart grew reminiscent as he rounded 
the curve of Preston, and ran rapidly along by the 
shining pebble ridge. There, before him, lay the 
cluster of houses. One of them her dwelling place. 
Marvel that it should be just commonplace brick 
and stone, set amidst a dozen others as common- 
place. 

He passed it slowly, the faint hoot of his horn 
sounding a signal. It was all in darkness. He 
remembered that her window was on the other 
side overlooking the bay. Of course she would 
not hear signals, or associate them with his auto- 
mobile if she did. The car rolled on, and he 
stopped it again at the Gloucester. He was dusty, 
and tired, and very hungry. A sleepy waiter 
offered the usual hotel fare. 

^‘Cold roast beef, chicken, ham, tongue.” 

Aubrey ordered beef and salad, and a bottle of 
Bass, and felt a new man before his meal was over. 
It was twelve o’clock when he went up to his room, 
and threw the window wide to the sea and the 
night, and the quiet stars. 

Life seemed good to him at that moment. Peace 
settled on his soul. He forgot that ominous 
monster crouched in stony defiance beyond the 
breakwater. He only smoked and dreamed in 
the placid moonlight, while the gentle murmur of 
the sea came ever and anon to his ears. 


Ii6 


The Iron Stair 


* ‘ Tomorrow, ” it seemed to say, and a sense of 
joy and expectance surged to his brain, as he 
listened. “Tomorrow?” . . . and that was here 
— almost. A few hours’ sleep, a dream or two, and 
then the day. 

It seemed now that he had foolishly sacrificed 
other days, other hours. That he might have 
stayed in his Arcadia instead of flying to other 
distractions just to put out of his head what never 
could be put out of it. His eyes took in the beauty 
of sea and sky and space; the beauty over which 
his eyes had so often rested. A sense of comrade- 
ship returned. She had said once that she could 
trust him ; she must never unsay it. He would see 
her just once more, take the cool flower-like hand 
in his own, wish her Godspeed in her new life, 
and then — well, then he must cease to dream, and 
learn to live. 

There was something to do in that great world 
beyond. Some fellow-soul to help, some saner, 
cleaner mode of life than the fldneurs and wasters 
of cities believed in. He would go abroad again. 
To Africa and its wilds, or Asia and its mysteries. 
Away from this endless round of pretended pleas- 
ures, the vapid frothy extravagance of a corrupt 
civilization. He would take Chaffey with him, 
and seek adventure on new lines. Give up these 
idle dreams; these indolent comforts. Follow in 
the footsteps of pioneers of new industries; new 
lands brought new interests. He would — well, 
there was everything apparently that he would 


To Help a Brother’s Soul 117 

do, and only one thing he would not: set forth on 
any such enterprise without one more sight of 
Renee Jessop’s face; one more clasp of Renee 
Jessop’s hand. 

Renee — the name was on his lips, softly breathed 
as a prayer or blessing. She was his last thought 
as sleep overtook him, and he passed with a single 
stride out of a soiled and difficult world to the 
Kingdom of Rest. 

‘ Tt is you ! Really you ! ’ ’ 

She was standing by the open window when he 
had first seen her. He was holding her hands, 
both of them. Her face was like a rose in its fresh 
young beauty, her eyes — he thought of violets 
with the dew of morning in their hearts. And all 
about her waved the splendour of her hair, sun- 
dried after her morning swim. 

He had waited for her return, and Madame 
Gascoigne had entertained him. He had seen her 
cross the lawn, and come swiftly up to the house. 
Had heard her soft cry of amazement, and then 
found himself holding her hands, and stammering 
something about a “motor tour, embracing this 
special coast en route for the Land’s End. 

“How perfectly lovely!” she cried rapturously. 
‘ ‘ All by yourself ! ’ ’ she added. ‘ ‘ I call that selfish 1 ’ ’ 

A sudden idea fiashed across Aubrey Derring- 
ham’s mind. If she and Madame Gascoigne 
would like a motor run, he would be only too 
happy to take them. 


Ii8 


The Iron Stair 


Renee gave a little cry of delight. “Oh, 
Madame! did you ever hear such a perfectly 
entrancing suggestion! A tour, a thing of days — 
not hours, and in that exquisite car, that rolls on 
velvet, and flies the hills like a bird! Oh! I’ve 
lived that night over and over again ! But I never 
thought you would remember me! I suppose it 
was only because this was on your route of the 
tour?” 

“Yes,” said Aubrey mendaciously. “I was 
going to Bridport, and thought I’d just stay here 
for the night. Then, this morning, I called on the 
chance of your being still with Madame Gas- 
coigne. ” 

“It is my last week here,” she said. “I have 
a right to make the most of it, have I not? Ma- 
dame, you hear? What do you say?” 

The old lady seemed unable to say anything 
very clearly. The suggestion was alarming in 
its suddenness, besides being unconventional 
enough to startle her slow travelling wits. She 
stammered objections. Renee combated them all. 
Distance meant nothing in that winged marvel! 
And they had never been to Cornwall, and she had 
always wanted to go, and now here was the chance! 
Incommode Monsieur? But why? If he was 
going, and there was room, two passengers would 
not make much difference! Luggage? Well, 
what would they want except a dressing-bag, and 
a rug strap? Was there room for that? 

Aubrey declared there was plenty of room. 


To Help a Brother’s Soul 


119 

He wotild show them if they came round to the 
garage. Renee declared that quite unnecessary. 
Did she not know the space and convenience and 
comfort of the beautifiil thing ! Besides, there were 
arrangements to make. The servants must be 
left in charge, and dressing-bags packed, and a 
motor veil purchased for Madame. Why waste 
any of the precious hours of the wonderful day? 

‘‘And what of letters demanded the bewil- 
dered Madame. “Money matters too? This im- 
petuosity ” 

Aubrey interposed. The tour was to be his 
affair. A — a wedding present to Mademoiselle 
Renee, if she would look at it in that light? 

Mademoiselle Renee decided it was a perfectly 
charming point of view. The best wedding 
present she had received ! Fancy comparing salt- 
cellars and sugar-tongs and toast-racks with a . 
proper automobile tour in — oh, such an adorable 
car! 

She concluded her arguments by smothering 
Madame Gascoigne with kisses, and hurrying her 
off to the kitchen to give parting directions to the 
servants. Then she flashed round upon Aubrey 
Derringham, and for a moment seemed to con- 
template a similar bewildering form of gratitude. 
However she stopped short at a butterfly touch 
on his hands, and a whirlwind of thanks for the 
splendid idea. 

It had occurred to Aubrey only five minutes pre- 
viously and now it was an arranged plan of action. 


120 


The Iron Stair 


He marvelled at the audacity of the suggestion, 
but then told himself that after all it is audacity 
that carries men to success. Here was an instance. 

“You won’t let Madame change her mind,” he 
urged. “You will come ? ’ ’ 

“Trust me! Such a chance is altogether too 
glorious to be thrown aside. How long do we 
tour? Three, four days?” 

“It is a long way to Land’s End,” said Aubrey 
diplomatically. 

“No matter! We have a week!” cried the girl 
recklessly. “One free glorious week, for which I 
shall have to thank you. Not one single thing 
in all the world could make me so happy — ex- 
cept ” 

“Yes?” questioned Aubrey, as he watched the 
paling face. 

“Except — that my poor Geoffrey was free once 
more, that I could see him again before ” 

Her voice broke suddenly. “No, I won’t think ! 
I must not ! I have cried enough. I want to be 
happy a little while, and not think of anything — 
anything in the world ” 

Their eyes met. What she saw in his stopped 
her speech, drew a little puzzled frown to her 
brows. How strangely he was regarding her. 

“Except ourselves,” she finished abruptly. 
“Which sounds selfish and abominable, and is 
therefore perfectly nice, as all bad things are! 
Now, when do we start?” 

“Will an hour be sufficient for you, or would you 


To Help a Brother’s Soul 121 


rather have your luncheon first?’* asked Aubrey. 
“We could get it at Bridport, if you like?” 

“Ah, yes!” she cried eagerly. “The sooner we 
go the better. I shall not feel it really has hap- 
pened until we are off!” 

“You don’t think Madame Gascoigne will 
change her mind?” again asked Aubrey anxiously. 

“If she does I shall not change mine!” was the 
defiant answer. “And as it would not be conven- 
able that I go a motor tour alone with a young 
man she must come to chaperone me. You see?” 

He saw, and hoped it would be as she said. The 
mad suggestion of a moment had suddenly materi- 
alized into a bewildering reality. He could hardly 
credit that for long hotrrs, days, they would be 
together, side by side in cool mornings, sunny 
noons, moonlit nights. Life was unfolding itself 
to him in a new fashion. He was not going to 
question its purport. Sufficient the day and the 
hour and the joy they brought. 

It was odd that he never asked himself how that 
“sad word joy” was to be translated by such in- 
congruous elements as a motor tour and a school- 
girl! 


CHAPTER X 


''to comfort or console” 

Punctual to the moment the car drew up. 

An ecstatic face appeared at the door, and hailed 
it. “It’s all right! We are ready! I’ve told 
Madame we can buy motor veils in the town. I 
wouldn’t lend her mine. It was my first, and you 
gave it to me!” 

Aubrey Derringham’s heart gave a foolish throb. 
Careless as the words were they seemed significant 
of some deeper meaning beneath. Then a neat 
maid appeared carrying a fair-sized dressing-bag 
and some rugs. 

“You will get frightfully dusty,” said Aubrey 
to Renee. “You ought to have a regular motor 
coat. Alpaca, or something, that would go over 
your ordinary dress. Get that too, at the draper’s 
in Thomas Street. I’ll wait for you. ” 

She nodded. “It can go down to my trousseau 
account,” she said. 

Aubrey winced at the careless words. They 
awoke a memory before which the glory of the 
day and the thoughts of its projects shrank into 
sudden disfavour. At the same moment Madame 


122 


To Comfort or Console 123 

Gascoigne appeared. She evidently had some 
sense of travelling wraps, and was shrouded in a 
long loose dust cloak. He helped her into the car, 
and wrapped a rug round her. She made room for 
Renee. 

“Oh, no! I sit there, in the front,’’ exclaimed 
that wilful young person. “I am to get out at 
Talbot’s,” she added, “and secure a motor coat, 
and a veil for you, cherie.'*' 

“Are you quite comfortable? Would you like 
a cushion?” enquired Aubrey. 

“Oh, no, this is a most delightful seat.” She 
leant back and smiled and nodded at them both. 

“Ah — but wait till it flies!” exclaimed Renee. 
“Then — ^it is to live.'" 

Aubrey helped her in, and then crossed to his 
own seat. He pulled the lever, and they glided 
off. He drove very slowly along the sea front, 
and through the main street. Renee made her 
purchases with surprising quickness, and returned 
in a long grey coat, that matched her veil. It had 
a collar that turned up over her pretty ears, and 
defied dust to disfigure it. She arranged a dust- 
coloured veil over the old lady’s close-fitting toque, 
and then sprang up to her seat beside Aubrey; a 
cool grey figure, with flushed cheeks and eager 
eyes. 

They had to make a detour for the main Dor- 
chester road, and then ran through Upwey, and 
its pretty wooded valley. Thence past Maiden 
Castle, with its stupendous earthworks reminis- 


124 


The Iron Stair 


cent of Roman invasion, and so through the quaint 
old town to Dorchester. 

From time to time Renee would look back to 
talk to the old lady, or demand admiration of the 
scene, or the car’s progress. At other moments 
she insisted upon being told the various meanings 
of regulating or changing speeds, use of brakes and 
handles and throttle and lever, until at last she 
suggested driving it herself. 

“Wait till we get to Cornwall,” said Aubrey. 
“Then one morning I’ll find a quiet deserted road, 
and you shall experiment. In the meantime if 
you watch me you’ll acquire the technique of your 
lesson, before the first trial. ” 

She did watch him very closely, and got into her 
head the methods of changing speeds “up hill,” and 
the mode of steering or driving by the curious 
round wheel which demanded equal skill of left 
and right hand. 

At Bridport they lunched and rested an hour. 
Then they ran on, and began to ascend the heights 
which dip gradually to the coast, and so lead to 
Charmouth and Lyme Regis. At that enchanting 
spot they halted again for tea, and, as Madame 
Gascoigne said: to shake off dust for a time. 
Aubrey had suggested Exeter as their stopping 
place for the night, but as it was only thirty miles 
further, he advised waiting till the cool of the 
evening. Madame had her tea, and was then 
shown to a room to rest and refresh 'herself. 
Renee, having delivered up her dusty wraps to the 


To Comfort or Console 


125 


attentive “Boots, ’’ declared she must run down to 
the sea. Aubrey put up the car and accompanied 
her. 

The exquisite little seaside nook enchanted them 
as it does most people on first sight. The 
“Cobb” seemed infinitely more desirable than the 
Weymouth Pier, with its garish modern Pavilion. 
The little town, nestling amidst wooded hills, 
breathed of peace and harmony to tired souls. 
They sat down on the sands, and watched the 
boats and the children at play. Then Renee 
wished to know if they couldn’t motor only in the 
early mornings and cool of the evenings, and spend 
the intervening hours “exploring, ” as she termed it. 
They pored over the “motor map, ” and traced the 
mileage, and Aubrey discovered they might really 
spend two days in accomplishing 173 miles! 

He laughed to himself as he said it. An average 
of 86 miles a day for his Mercedes. But if Renee 
had suggested ten, he would have agreed. Eagerly 
she planned where they would stop; what they 
should do, and see. It involved a good deal of 
circumlocution as to route, but of that Aubrey 
made light. A week seemed long enough to do 
anything her wilfulness desired. At last they put 
aside the map, and an elaborate pencilled calcula- 
tion of Renee’s own making, and returned to the 
“Lion” for Madame. A quarter of an hour later 
they were again switchbacking over hills, and 
heights, and dropping gradually down to the Axe 
VaUey. 


126 


The Iron Stair 


Long before they reached Cornwall Madame 
Gascoigne expressed herself “enchanted” with 
her first experience of motoring. Well she might, 
for everything ran on velvet, so to say. Aubrey 
telegraphed for rooms and dinners, so that every 
stopping place meant convenient arrangements. 
The long days in the open air induced sleep, and a 
pleasant sense of fatigue. Madame would retire 
early after dinner, but Renee usually insisted on 
seeing the special sights of any town where they 
stayed. Aubrey Derringham had to provide him- 
self with guide-books, so as to satisfy her ardent 
curiosity on every point. 

The Wednesday night found them speeding over 
the bleak Cornish moorland, which stretches from 
Penzance to the Land’s End. Renee had decided 
she must see that famous promontory under the 
most romantic auspices. 

“Don’t speak a single word to me!” she com- 
manded. “Just leave me alone till we come right 
up to the cliff, as far as we can go. I know it. 
I’ve seen the picture, and I want to feel what it 
must be — the end of the land ; the end of England, 
and before one the great raging ocean, and the far- 
off lights of the Scillies! Let me see if it is like 
that! I hope so. I do so want it to be!” They 
had left Madame Gascoigne at Penzance, she 
having decided to visit Land’s End and other 
notable places by daylight. But she had not 
gainsaid Renee’s wish to go off in the moonlight 
with their kindly guide. It was a queer fancy, but 


To Comfort or Console 


127 


the child was full of queer fancies, and if it pleased 
her to see that wild place under odd conditions why 
— she would see it. There was no more to be said. 

The trustful spirit of the old French lady put 
Aubrey Derringham on his honour. She never 
seemed to think that the beauty, and youth, and 
witchery of her young charge might hold any power 
to fire a man’s pulses; or tempt his senses into 
paths where they had no right to stray. To 
Madame she was still “the child.” Still the 
adored and spoilt creature who had been her 
charge so long. The nearness of her marriage 
only seemed a safeguard where other men were 
concerned. Aubrey Derringham knew of it, 
therefore Aubrey was safeguarded. 

Had she seen the young man’s face, or pried into 
his heart as he sat beside that silent girl, she might 
have altered her opinion. 

The car sped swiftly over the stony road. Past 
granite towers of queer little churches, and granite 
houses in queer little villages. Past hedgerows 
and outcrops of the same stony substance. There 
was no colour in the landscape. It was all dull 
grey, and dull granite, save for queer patches of 
moss, or lichen, or a spark of mica where the moon- 
rays caught the stone. 

Nothing seemed to move in that shadowy 
greyness. No figure; not even a stray sheep, or a 
wandering dog. To Aubrey Derringham it seemed 
like part of a dream, in which he acted mechani- 
cally. A dream from which he was awakened by 


128 


The Iron Stair 


the thunder of the sea, and the lights of scattered 
houses. 

He stopped and turned to his companion. “We 
must walk to the cliff, ” he said. 

She made no answer, save to throw her rug aside 
and spring out. Aubrey loitered a moment to 
switch off the engine. Its noise seemed to jar 
with the peace and beauty of the scene. When he 
turned to follow the slim grey figure it was far in 
advance. The ground was all broken granite and 
rough turf, leading to the dangerous edge of sheer 
stony cliffs. Below, the sea broke and thundered 
over boulder and reef. A mile away rose the tall 
shaft of the Longship lighthouse. To the south 
towered the Wolf, and all before them lay the wide 
Atlantic, heaving and restless as a chained force 
restrained by savage strength. 

The cliff towered above a jagged mass of broken 
rocks, whose outer points severed the advance of 
the water like the teeth of a saw. Nothing seemed 
alive but those restless waves, the ever dominating 
voice of nature’s strength. 

The girl was standing motionless on the cliff 
edge, gazing down at the fierce turmoil below. 
Aubrey joined her, and stood silently by her side, 
awaiting her pleasure to speak. Once as he 
glanced around he thought how utterly alone they 
were. How removed from all the falsities and in- 
sincerities of the world beyond. Just the sky, and 
sea, and the solemn peace of night, and that strange 
harmony of the restless waters at their feet. 


To Comfort or Console 129 

Suddenly the girl drew a long deep breath. 
^‘What little foolish things we seem — here!” she 
said. 

“I was thinking that,” said Aubrey. 

“Chattering, laughing, pretending,” she went 
on. “As if our stupid affairs mattered to the 
Creator of that!'^ She pointed outwards to the 
great silvered ocean, so vast, so mysterious, so 
unutterably beyond man’s power to control, or 
defy. 

“Pretending?” echoed Aubrey, snatching at the 
one word which was self-revealing. 

“Pretending to be important; to be happy; to 
want our lives changed for us because — because 
we have changed to them. ” 

He was silent ; startled by the expression of her 
face, as she lifted her head to the clear moonlight. 
All its soft young beauty seemed to quiver with 
passionate resentment. What did it mean? What 
had changed her life, or its outlook? 

She put up her hand, and pushed the hair from 
her brow. Then she moved a few steps backward. 
“It makes me giddy. I had no idea the sea could 
be like that.” 

“You have seen it only as a bay. ” 

“It is awful!” she whispered. “So strong, 
so fierce, so merciless. ... Is life like that — 
ever?” 

“Yes,” he answered. “Very like that. A 
relentless force carrying us on and on, to — achieve 
our destiny, or face our failures. ” 


9 


130 


The Iron Stair 


“Face our failures; our defeat, you mean. We 
are not so strong as nature, are we? ” 

“That’s a puzzling question. Not so strong as 
the force you are facing there, below. That’s 
why one hopes that mistakes will be forgiven. 
They’re so easy to make; so hard to remedy. ” 

“I was thinking of Geoffrey,” she said. 

“I was thinking of — ^you. ” 

When he had said it he felt angered at the folly 
of such a speech. She turned quickly to him. 

“Of me? . . . You think I have made a 
mistake?” 

“ I have grown to know you rather well, in these 
long days together. The more I know of you the 
more afraid I feel for you. ” 

“You don’t like my marriage?” she said, very 
low. “Is it the fact, or the person? No, it 
can’t be that. You don’t even know him. ” 

“I have seen him,” he said impulsively. 

“Where?” 

“In the Court, that day when — ^when I first saw 
you.” 

“You can’t judge of a person’s character by just 
seeing them — once?” 

‘ ‘ Perhaps not. An opinion looks like prejudice. ’ ’ 

Again she sighed. 

“ I’m beginning to wish I’d never met you, ” she 
said. “You make me 

“Perhaps it is as well you should begin to do 
that,” he said, “if you are so soon to take the 
responsibilities of life upon your shoulders. ” 


To Comfort or Console 131 

Impulsively she seized his arm. “Oh, but 
that’s just why I wanted these seven perfectly 
empty days! I know that never again will such 
days or hours come to me. ... I don’t want 
to spoil one. That’s why I wish you hadn’t been 
— ^been so different ” 

“Different?” he echoed. 

“From them. From George, from Geoffrey. 
I know no other men. Father doesn’t count.” 

‘ ‘ And am I very different from George and Geof- 
frey?” 

She nodded, and released his arm. 

“Absolutely. I can’t understand why. Look 
here, ” she flashed round again. “As I’m speaking 
out my mind tonight, I want to ask you some- 
thing.” 

“Ask,” he said tersely. 

“You mustn’t be angry. I know I oughtn’t to. 
But, the others don’t care, and they don’t believe 
in him as I do. ” 

“Believe — in who?” 

“In Geoffrey, in his innocence. I have learnt 
that after three months he can receive one visit 
from a friend. Father won’t go, nor George. I 
can’t. There’s only you, I made up my mind I’d 
ask you. And when I stood there, and looked 
down at that fierce raging sea below, it seemed 
to me like life, gripping, pressing one down to 
depths of despair! Oh — I don’t want my poor 
boy to get desperate! I want him to know — 
someone — believes in him, and loves him, and 


132 


The Iron Stair 


remembers him! And I want you to go and tell 
him that.” 

Aubrey felt too astonished for words. ^‘But — 
I’m not a friend,” he stammered. ‘‘He might 
think it an impertinence if I visited him. ” 

“Not if you say I sent you. ” 

“And what of his brother? He may ask why he 
did not come?” 

“Perhaps he will. Say you don’t know, that’s 
all.” 

“And you think he will rest satisfied with that? 
Hadn’t I better say he is on his honeymoon?” 

She flashed round like a fury. “How perfectly 
hateful of you to say that! And tonight of all 
nights!” 

Aubrey tingled with shame at her passionate 
words. 

“Please forgive me. It was thoughtless. ” 

“Cruel!” she said. “Didn’t I tell you I 
had emptied my heart of everything, just for 
seven perfect days, and now — ^you’ve spoilt it 
all!” 

“I— I didn’t know ” 

“Not only have you hurt me, but you want to 
hurt Geoffrey. What would he think of my 
getting married, only three months after he had 
been condemned to such a fate?” 

Aubrey was silent. He could not tell her how 
illogical she was. He was afraid of tears. They 
seemed dangerously near her eyes. If she wept, 
he felt his self-command would go to pieces. It 


To Comfort or Console 


133 


was hard enough to keep it under control, even 
as things were. 

“Why don’t you speak?” she went on presently. 
“Have I asked something you don’t want to do? 
If so, just say no, at once, and there’s an end of 
it. ” 

“But I want to see Geoffrey!” he exclaimed. 
“Don’t you know I’ve always believed in him?” 

“Then why didn’t you say so at once, instead of 
— ^very nearly quarrelling about it?” 

“Because, you ought to consider your cousin’s 
feelings, even if you don’t trouble about him.” 

“ Geoff rey would be only too glad that someone 
from the outer world had remembered. If you 
said what I told you to say, he would know you 
were a friend of mine. ” 

“Listen to me, you child of impulse!” 

“No, not if you’re going to argue. That’ll 
bring all the trouble back, all the memories I’ve 
put away. If you are my friend, as you said — 
once, then all I want is for you to say: ‘Yes, I’ll 
go.’ We needn’t talk about it any more. We 
needn’t spoil — a night like this. We shall under- 
stand it’s a compact, and when I get home again 
I’ll tell you the date, and how to apply for admis- 
sion. ” 

“Perhaps I could find that out myself,” he 
said. “ My brother is a friend of the Home Secre- 
tary. I could, I think, procure an order independ- 
ently of the family.” 

“Then it is— yes?” 


134 


The Iron Stair 


‘^Of course,” he said. 

She regarded him gravely. “IVe often won- 
dered,” she said, “if you were some great person? 
You’ve let out so many things, and you seem to 
know so many people. Yet ‘Mr. Derringham’ 
doesn’t convey anything to me. If you were Lord 
Derringham now ” 

Aubrey laughed. “I assure you I’m only a 
plain ‘Mister.’” 

“And you seem so rich?” she said thoughtfully. 
“Yet you have no business, or profession? Ma- 
dame was saying yesterday that she could not 
imagine why you should have taken all this trouble 
about us? It wasn’t as if you knew us? We were 
never even introduced, were we?” 

“Do you think that matters?” 

“With you — no. But it might with some men. 
Now, really and truly, why did you bother to take 
us this motor tour?” 

“Simply to give you a pleasure you desired.” 

“But isn’t it rather unusual for — people, almost 
strangers, to do such generous things?” 

“You called me selfish, and I felt I must rise 
above such an accusation. For goodness’ sake 
don’t talk as if I’d done anything very wonderful! 
Here was my big empty car, and my stupid empty 
life. What better use could I have found for them 
— than — than just what I have found?” 

She turned her soft eyes to his face. There were 
tears in them now. 

“To think I called you selfish ! You, who never 


To Comfort or Console 


135 


seem to think of yourself at all, only of us and for 
us. It’s I who am a selfish little beast! Making 
you do everything I want, never asking you if it’s 
a trouble, or if you want to do it, or, or ” 

“Oh, hush!” he said, deeply shocked at the mis- 
applied epithet. “I’ve enjoyed these days more 
than any I’ve ever known. As for trouble — it’s 
been no trouble to go where you wanted to go, or 
stop where you wanted to stop, or let you hold 
the steering wheel on a quiet road. I’m only 
sorry that we’ve come to the end of the trip, so 
far. Of course there’s the return journey.” 

“But every day will mean going back instead of 
going on,” she said regretfully. “And I’m not 
^ empty ’ now, I’ve begun to fill up again. Thoughts, 
duties, memories, they’ll all come crowding back 
as soon as we leave Cornwall. And that’s to- 
morrow, isn’t it?” 

“There’s plenty of Cornwall to see, besides 
this,” he said. “And I thought we might return 
by a different route.” 

“But still it will be return. Do let us stay here 
all tomorrow? Friday is soon enough to go back. ” 

“Too soon, if you ask me,” he said. 

“That sounds nice. I am glad we haven’t 
bored you.” 

She moved away a few steps, and stood again 
looking down at the foaming waters. 

“It is wonderful, and I shall always be glad I 
saw it with you,” she said softly. “Often and 
often I shall think of tonight and how you said 


136 


The Iron Stair 


you believed in Geoffrey, and that you would do 
what I asked. ” 

He thought jealously that she spoke of Geoffrey 
Gale more often and more tenderly than she 
ever spoke of his brother. Then a sudden sharp 
suspicion rushed through his mind. Could it be 
that it was the younger brother she loved? And 
was she sacrificing herself for some reason of which 
he, Aubrey Derringham, was ignorant? 


CHAPTER XI 


“as one who lies and dreams “ 

“All the best things of my life have come to me 
at night, “ said Renee suddenly. 

Aubrey Derringham started from a long reverie 
in which thought had revolved like a squirrel in a 
cage, round and round from one special centre. 

“My first friend, my first motor drive, and now 
— this!” She pointed to the silvered width of the 
sea, and the great broken battlements stretching 
far and wide as the land’s defence against its 
force. 

“Oh! I am glad I saw it at night,” she went 
on. “ I am glad I saw it with — you. ” 

“ Isn’t there someone you would rather have had 
in my place?” asked Aubrey, striving for indiffer- 
ence yet jealously fearful of reply. 

“No,” she said promptly. “You suit it, and 
me, and the way it all came about. I shall love 
to think of that long silent drive; that great purr- 
ing thing conveying us so swiftly and surely 
through lonely spaces. The stars above, the cool 
air in my face, and all this waiting for me.” 

She paused, but he said nothing. What was 
137 


138 


The Iron Stair 


there to say? She was only a child, speaking as 
frankly as a child speaks. 

^‘And now it’s over,” she said suddenly. ‘^We 
must go back. I wonder if I shall ever come here 
again? Somehow — I don’t think I shall want to. 
Things never happen twice in the same way, do 
they?” 

“No,” he said huskily. “You can’t repeat an 
emotion, in exactly the same way.” 

“Will you ever come here again?” she asked. 
“But of course you will. You are free to do 
what you please, and your car is like the Genie 
of the Lamp. You say: ‘Take me here, or 
there,’ and it obeys.” 

“I wonder,” said Aubrey suddenly, “if — I 
might — ?” He broke off abruptly. He hated 
to say the one word that would excuse a gift, 
however costly. 

“Might — what? How you do break off your 
sentences tonight.” 

“I was wondering if I might send you a little 
car? Just for yourself? Easy to drive, and keep 
in order.” 

“A car! For myself! My very own! You 
perfect angel of a man, do you really mean it?” 

She clasped his hand in both her own. Her face 
was joy and wonder incarnate. Her eyes like stars. 

“Of course I mean it. I’ve seen the very thing. 
It only holds two, and is so simple a child could 
drive it. ” 

“But then, there’s the cleaning, and repairs, 


As One who Lies and Dreams 139 

and a place to keep it in? Oh — I’m afraid it 
can’t be! Besides, George might not like me to 
have one.” 

“You’re surely not going to sign away your 
freedom with your name?” said Aubrey savagely. 

The magic of the night was in his veins. He 
wanted to see that rapture kindle for him; to 
thrill at her warm handclasp, and know himself 
the bringer of all that joy and delight which 
overflowed from eyes and lips. 

“It will be yours — ^yours alone. A gift from 
a friend. He can’t interfere. Besides, why should 
he? Life will be dull enough for you in one of those 
remote Devon villages. A car to take you about 
over the moors, and through the lanes, will be a 
little relief from the dulness.” 

“Relief? It will be heaven! But ” 

“Never mind the ‘buts. ’ We’ll find a way to 
answer them. I’ll give you a few lessons, and it 
will be quite an easy car. They’re specially made 
for ladies. You’re sure to have a gardener, or 
some man of all work, attached to the place, and 
he’ll be able to keep it in order. If he can’t, 
there’s a garage in nearly every town. The car 
would be looked after there. By the way, what 
will be your nearest town?” 

“I don’t know,” she said. 

“Don’t know?” 

“The parish is called Shapsdown. George said 
it was very remote, and the church very old. ” 

“I will look it out in the guide-book,” said 


140 


The Iron Stair 


Aubrey. ^‘Unless’’ — ^he paused, and glanced at 
her excited face. ‘^Unless you’d like to return 
that way?” 

“But it’s somewhere up on Dartmoor, miles and 
miles from towns and roads. We’d never be able 
to get there!” 

He laughed. “You forget the ‘Genie of the 
Lamp,’” he said. 

“No, I don’t forget.” Her face grew troubled. 
“I don’t want to see the place,” she added, “only 
to know if there is a town anywhere near. ” 

“Well, let us go to the town, not to the place.” 

“ But could we, really? In three days? I want 
to be in Manchester on Monday, and I must go 
back to Weymouth first. ” 

“You would have to sacrifice the idle day you 
promised yourself here. We must get back to 
Plymouth, and branch off to Dartmoor. But I 
must look at the map. ” 

“You really are a perfect angel!” she repeated. 
“What is it one calls ‘ the time of one’s life ’ ? That’s 
what you’re giving me.” 

“Oh, my dear,” he said, with sudden passion 
breaking through restraint, “what is there I 
wouldn’t give you — if I only might!” 

She stood quite still, and looked at him with the 
puzzled wonder of a child. What had he meant? 
Why was his face so white, and his eyes so strange? 
A momentary fear came to her in that moment. 
The fear of some force she had called up, and which 
threatened disaster. 


As One who Lies and Dreams 141 

^‘Let us go!’’ she said hurriedly. Madame 
will be anxious. She said I must go to her room 
when I get back, and tell her all about this. ” 

She turned quickly towards the car, and Aubrey 
followed. What madness had prompted him to 
betray himself? To startle that dreaming peace of 
girlhood, and shake her trust in the friend whose 
care she claimed? He said not a word, only helped 
her to her seat, and wrapped the rugs round her 
slender figure. Then he started the engine, and 
sent the car back over the bleak moorland, with 
its weird cairns and crosses and circles, and so past 
the little hamlets of St. Buryan and Sennen to that 
pretty Cornish seaside resort — Penzance. 

Not till they were in sight of its lights did Aubrey 
break the silence. Then he said softly: You’re 
not angry with me. Miss Renee?” 

“Angry?” She turned swiftly. “Why, I’ve 
been thinking it all over again, and wondering 
why you are so good to me?” 

“But you’ve not spoken a word?” 

“No more have you.” 

“I waited your Highness’s pleasure,” he said, 
with an effort at lightness. “I promised to do 
everything you wished tonight. ” 

“You’re spoiling me!” she cried passionately. 
“Madame was quite right. She said so, and I — 
only laughed. ” 

“Please laugh again?” he entreated. “For it 
isn’t true, I couldn’t spoil you. Indulgence hurts 


142 


The Iron Stair 


no one so young, and frank, and innocent as your- 
self. And the greatest pleasure I’ve ever known 
has been this — happy time we’ve had together — 
you and I.” 

“You and I — and the car,” she added. “Yes. 
It has been happy. I’m glad you’re not bored, 
after all. I’m only a foolish schoolgirl, not much 
company for a man, I should say. ” 

“I wish I had never had — worse,” said Aubrey 
passionately. “But there, child, for goodness’ 
sake don’t let us get sentimental. We’ve steered 
clear of that, so far. Now, there’s tomorrow to 
think of, and plan for. I’ll have it all cut and dry. 
We needn’t make too early a start. You ought 
to see Mousehole, and Newlyn, the artists’ 
quarters here, and there’s Saint Michael’s Mount. 
I’ll take you to them all, and then, later in the day, 
we’ll start for Plymouth again. ” 

She clasped his arm in her impetuous way. 
“You dear man! I think I love you almost as 
much as Geoffrey!” 

And again Aubrey’s heart said jealously: “Is 
it — Geoffrey — after all?” 

The night of Friday found them at Tavistock. 

Aubrey and Renee had pored over maps and 
measured mileage, and come to the conclusion 
that it was the nearest town to her future 
home. But it was odd that the girl refused to 
go to that special home, where her life was to be 
spent. 


As One who Lies and Dreams 143 


Her slender finger, tracing out so many names, 
so many meanings, had paused — once — at Prince- 
town. She looked at Aubrey Derringham, and 
he read what was in her mind. 

*‘But — he — isn’t there,” he questioned. 

‘^No, not yet. He may — be.” 

‘‘Good heavens!” 

In a flash he seemed to read some fresh trouble 
in store, linked with association, carrying her into 
a region of danger and perplexity. If Geoffrey 
was drafted from his present quarters to that re- 
mote convict prison at Princetown — would it not 
be a constant reminder of his proximity? 

He looked at the map. Princetown was only 
seven miles from their present stopping place, and 
the little parish of Shapsdown was hidden away 
in one of those dips of the moor above which tower 
the granite tors of Crockern and Hessary. It was 
so small and so insignificant as not to be worth 
guide-book description. Aubrey wondered why it 
needed a Parish Church or a rector and supple- 
mentary curate at all? The thought of burying 
such lovely bright youth as Renee’s in so desolate 
a region seemed an absolute cruelty. Quickly 
his eyes scanned the names or unimportance of the 
scattered towns. Plympton, Ashburton, Chag- 
ford, Moreton Hampstead. Well, at least there 
would be some semblance of life there, and the little 
car would bring her into touch with it. The 
history of the great moor suddenly began to live 
for him in this history ol tor, and hut circles; 


144 


The Iron Stair 


of barrows and cairns. He wondered it had 
never occurred to him to motor over so interest- 
ing a district. He pictured its rugged desolation ; 
its granite strength; the fantastic ridges and 
formations, which had made some sixty miles of 
prehistoric history, and had now become a 
tourist-exploited region with a fame of its own. 

“Why are you staring at that name?’^ asked 
Renee at last. 

He glanced down to where his finger rested, and 
saw a name that conveyed nothing. 

Two Bridges,'*' 

“It’s a queer name,” said the girl. “Why are 
there bridges on a moor?” 

“I don’t know, unless there’s a river. We 
seem deplorably ignorant of the locality.” He 
turned to the hotel guide-book and read: “^Two 
miles in an easterly direction we cross the Black- 
brook by a clapper bridge’ — there’s the explana- 
tion.” 

“But only one bridge!” 

He laughed. “Shall we go over tomorrow and 
see if there are two?” 

“Oh — shall we?” She sprang to her feet. 
“But — wait, ” she added. “ Isn’t it near — Shaps- 
down?” 

“A few miles. But there’s no motor road.” 

She glanced to where Madame Gascoigne was 
placidly slumbering in a deep old-fashioned chair 
by the fireplace. 

“She might wish to see it. ” 


As One who Lies and Dreams 145 


‘‘Well, why not?” he said sharply. 

She looked at him as if surprised at his tone. 
“I told you I didn’t want to go there — before I 
must.” 

“I suppose you have a reason? But it seems 
to me that now you are so near, your future hus- 
band might reasonably expect you would feel 
sufficiently interested in his parish to visit it?” 

“What a horrid prim speech! I’m not inter- 
ested, and I’m not going. We’ve found out all 
that’s necessary, haven’t we?” 

“But we could have found that out by the guide- 
book.” 

“Yes, I suppose so. Only I wanted to see what 
Tavistock was like. ” 

“There are places nearer and more convenient 
for your car,” he suggested. “I really think we 
ought to explore a little. ” 

“Aren’t you very tired of driving so long, and 
so far?” she asked suddenly. “It seems such 
hard work.” 

“It isn’t exactly — easy. But the car has be- 
haved so well that I don’t mind. ” 

“ May I try it on the moor, if we go?” 

Aubrey laughed. “That’s saying you want to 
go after all?” 

“ I do, and I don’t. I want to see it — with you. 
But I don’t want you to see — that place. ” 

“We will pretend that it doesn’t exist. There 
seems to be a charming hotel at this ‘ Two Bridges. ’ 
Let us lunch there, and do a little of the moor on 

IS 


146 


The Iron Stair 


foot. Madame can have her afternoon rest. 
We will come back in the cool of the evening. 
The next day we start on the homeward route. 
We shall have to travel all day Sunday.” 

She looked at him thoughtfully. ^^And you 
go back to London?” 

^‘Yes. I’m going to see about your car.” 

“ How am I to learn to drive it, if • • • if you 
send it?” 

“I will send someone to teach you. He is my 
own chauffeur. Excellent, and very careful. He 
can stay until you are quite perfect. ” 

They were both taking it for granted that George 
Gale would make no objections either to gift, or 
instructor. 

The sky was dull and overcast next morning. 
There was a promise of rain in the air. Madame 
Gascoigne decided that she would not go up on 
the moor. She had read of it as a wild lonely 
place, and pictured it devoid of shelter, or habita- 
tion. She requested to be left at the comfortable 
* ‘Bedford,” and announced a determination to see 
what there was to be seen of the town. The long 
days in the car were a little tiring, though she 
would not acknowledge it, and she rather desired 
a day to herself. 

So Aubrey Derringham and Renee started alone 
over the wide splendid road, and made their first 
acquaintance with the region that was destined 
to play an important part in their lives. 


As One who Lies and Dreams 147 

At first sight Dartmoor looks like some medi- 
aeval giant’s playground. A place of rugged 
crests and curious peaks; of rushing torrents, and 
semi-volcanic upheavals. Everywhere are gro- 
tesque shapes; everywhere are rock and granite, 
shattered and disintegrated by some freak of 
nature. Yet in some softened mood she has tried 
to atone for such freaks by a gift of lovely gorges, 
of wild ravines, of green valleys, melting into huge 
tracts of morass and bog. Wide and well-cared 
roads cross and re-cross the moorland; ascending 
to heights, dipping to river beds, bringing to town 
and village the tourist, or explorer, or some student 
of nature bent on geological information. 

Clouds were still ominous when the car reached 
the hotel at Two Bridges. The place looked very 
desolate. Crocker Tor was shrouded in mist ; 
the grey stone hostlery looked bare and uninviting. 
But as they entered Renee gave an exclamation of 
rapture. 

She had stepped into a long low room, where a 
cheerful fire blazed welcome. Low tables, and 
chintz-covered chairs and couches gave a modern 
yet homely touch. After the bleak moor and cold 
grey mist, it all looked delightfully home-like 
and inviting. 

Such a place in the midst of such a desolate 
region was a ^surprise. It turned out to be a 
favourite summer resort for anglers, a crowd of 
whom came in to lunch. 

“Princetown is just above,” said Renee, who 


148 


The Iron Stair 


had been talking to an attentive waiter. “He 
asked if we were going there. Most people do.’' 

“But we decided that we wouldn’t, you know? 
This is a dreary region. I think Madame Gas- 
coigne was wise to remain behind. ” 

“Shapsdown is only six miles off,” said the girl, 
with a sudden shiver. 

She looked out of the queer little casement at 
the bleak tors and the rushing stream. Then 
suddenly her face paled. She turned to Aubrey, 
who had come up to her side. 

“Did you see those two fishermen, just coming 
in!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “One of them is 
my cousin — George!” 


CHAPTER XII 

“ FOR FETTERED LIMBS GO LAME 

Almost on her words the two anglers came into 
the warm bright room, carrying their rods and 
baskets. 

The girl went swiftly forward, and Aubrey, 
watching, caught sight of the astonished face of 
the young cleric as he recognized her. 

She explained matters in her usual “taken-for- 
granted” fashion. But a very sullen and discon- 
certed introduction followed. It might have been 
only natural that a prospective bridegroom should 
object to his fiancee’s explanation of a motor tour, 
suddenly arranged, though adequately chaperoned. 
But when the originator was a good-looking young 
man and the chaperon had been unwarrantably 
left behind, cordial greetings were scarcely possible. 

Aubrey Derringham felt that explanations 
only complicated the situation. He stood there 
stiff and uncomfortable, while Renee rhapsodized 
over the joys of motoring, and her own efforts in 
that line. 

She had introduced Aubrey as “a friend of 
Madame Gascoigne’s — and mine,” and George 
149 


The Iron Stair 


150 

Gale got into his head that he was a resident in 
Weymouth. 

“Were you going on to Shapsdown?’’ he asked 
Renee. “You might have told me. 

“I didn’t know. I mean I only wanted to see 
what the moor was like. We just stopped here for 
lunch.” 

“We may as well lunch together,” said Gale. 
“ If — Mr. Derringham has no objection? ” he added 
stiffly. 

Aubrey had to murmur acquiescence, and pre- 
tend a sociability he was far from feeling. The day 
was spoilt for him. Doubly spoilt when the 
Curate suggested they should drive over to his 
“moorland cot,” as he called it, so that Renee 
might give her opinion on various matters. The 
girl treated the suggestion with cool indifference, 
but he argued so persistently that refusal looked 
ungracious. 

“I don’t like Dartmoor at all,” she announced. 
“Those great bare spaces, and hideous old tors, 
like frowning giants in the background. And 
they say there is always mist, and storm, and cold 
even in summer time. Look at that ! ” she nodded 
towards the window, where all outward view was 
being gradually excluded. 

George Gale looked, and his brow darkened. It 
was not likely he could persuade them to motor 
over a rough road, in one of these Dartmoor mists. 

' ‘ It may lift, ’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘ Half an hour makes all 
the difference sometimes.” 


For Fettered Limbs Go Lame 151 


“Do you often come here to fish?” asked 
Aubrey. 

“Not very often. I happened to meet a college 
friend, who is doing a walking tour, and we ar- 
ranged a fishing excursion for today, but the mist 
spoilt it.” 

“I shall come here — often,” observed Renee, 
looking round approvingly. “I like this place. 
It is so home-like. I shall make my sitting-room 
just like that; all chintzes and panelling; rose 
and cream against brown and white. I hope there 
is a room — adaptable. Long and low, with little 
latticed casements?” 

“The house is very small,” said George Gale. 
“But the rooms are low ceilinged enough! There 
is no chintz yet,” he added. “I left decorations 
to you.” 

* ‘ Ah — that will be something to do 1 ” said the girl 
eagerly. “When I have my little Runabout, I 
can go to the towns and get what I want quite 
easily.” 

“Runabout?” questioned George Gale, in a 
puzzled tone. “But, my dear, I don’t keep any 
sort of conveyance. The old rector has a village 
cart, and a boy to drive it. He says it is to be 
at your disposal. ” 

“A village cart!” Renee’s eyes flashed con- 
tempt at such a proposition. “ I am going to have 
a little motor car, and drive it myself. It is the 
best wedding present I’ve had, or shall, or could 
have.” 


152 


The Iron Stair 


‘‘A wedding present! That alters the case. 
But who is the generous friend who is going to 
present you with it?” 

'‘This — ” Renee laid an impulsive hand on 
Aubrey Derringham’s arm. 

" You — Mr. Derringham?” 

The uplifted eyebrows and cynical smile an- 
noyed Aubrey. 

“It is nothing,” he said. “A little Runabout 
just to amuse Miss Jessop, and prevent her for- 
getting how to drive. They are useful in country 
places.” 

“No doubt, ” said George, somewhat arrogantly. 
“Still, I was not aware you were such a very old 
friend of the family as to feel it incumbent to give 
any wedding gift to my wife. Least of all so 
costly, and unusual a one!” 

“How perfectly horrid you are to talk like that!” 
exclaimed Renee. “He’s the kindest and most 
generous friend I’ve ever had. And Madame 
Gascoigne doesn’t object to the present, so why 
should you? If I’m to be buried alive in these 
desolate regions it will at least be a compensation. ” 

“Flattering to me,” said the young man, trying 
to smile, but succeeding badly. 

Renee shrugged her shoulders. “I never pay 
compliments, you know that. Besides it holds 
two. I can take you about in it also, unless you’re 
afraid to trust yourself.” 

“I should have to see that you were efficient, 
for both our sakes. ” 


For Fettered Limbs Go Lame 153 


“You need have no fear/’ interposed Aubrey. 
“The man who brings the car down will be able 
to teach Miss Jessop all about it. They are very 
simply constructed, these small ones.” 

“But where is it to be kept, and who is going 
to clean it and look after it? It strikes me, Mr. 
Derringham, that this princely gift of yours will 
be somewhat of a white elephant to a country 
curate’s wife!” 

Aubrey flushed consciously. The words held 
possessive significance. 

“That’s what we came to see about today!” 
exclaimed Renee. “Why can’t it stay here, until 
you build a motor house? For, of course, you will, 
and isn’t there anyone in the village who could 
wash and clean a little motor car? If not — I’ll 
do it myself.” 

“I could hardly allow that,'' said George Gale 
superciliously. “I suppose if you — and Mr. 
Derringham — have decided on a car, there’s 
nothing more to be said. It only remains for us 
to accept the gift, and be duly gratefuly for its 
— doubtful benefits.” 

“ Us ! ” flashed Renee stormily . ‘ ^ Please remem- 

ber, George, that the car is mine, and I can quite 
well see to its upkeep ! There’s no need to create 
difficulties, where none exist.” 

His face whitened. “I beg your pardon, I’m 
sure. You see this is a surprise to me, though an 
accepted fact to yourself. Let us say no more 
about it. ” 


154 


The Iron Stair 


Aubrey felt at once enraged and uncomfortable. 
He had had no thought of George Gale when he 
proffered so unusual a gift. Possibly the young 
man was right in his estimation of it as ^‘extra- 
ordinary.*’ Aubrey had thought only of Renee. 
Her pleasure, her comfort, her amusement. Now 
it seemed there would be trouble over this too 
generous proposal. If it brought her annoyance 
it would have been better not to have offered it. 

Instinctively he felt he hated George Gale, and 
that the dislike was mutual. Yet jealousy was 
not unnatural in a prospective husband who had 
suddenly come upon his bride touring the country 
with a comparative stranger. Renee had given 
the impression of friendship with Madame Gas- 
coigne, but half a dozen words from that excellent 
lady would have exploded the fiction. Irritated 
as he was at the rencontre Aubrey Derringham felt 
Gale’s attitude was excusable. Renee’s admis- 
sions as to his wedding gift had added fuel to the 
fire of his resentment. Altogether it was a most 
uncomfortable luncheon. 

It appeared also that Renee had not thought 
fit to acquaint her fiance with her movements. 
He had pictured her in her own home in Man- 
chester. A not unnatural surmise considering 
that their wedding day was but a week distant. 

“ I told father, ” she said. “I thought he would 
be writing to you. I’m going home on Monday. 
I wanted a holiday badly. Thank goodness I 
got the chance of one!” 


For Fettered Limbs Go Lame 155 


George Gale tried to look pleasant, and accept 
her frank confession as part and parcel of her 
well-known wilfulness. But he lacked savoir 
faire, and his pretence was a poor one. To make 
matters worse the mist had settled down so deter- 
minedly that a visit to Shapsdown seemed im- 
possible. It was like a thick grey curtain, blotting 
out distances, and confusing nearness. 

Aubrey Derringham felt it his duty to leave the 
engaged pair to themselves over coffee, and made 
some excuse about fixing up the hood of his car. 
Renee threw him a reproachful glance from her 
cosy seat by the fire, but he was by now in a 
thoroughly bad humour both with her and himself. 
It was an unpleasant situation, and had awakened 
unpleasant memories. The dislike he had felt to 
George Gale in the witness box was increased ten- 
fold by his manner and his words. They were 
rivals by instinct, and they recognized the fact. 
He left Renee to make the best of it, and went 
out. 

His car was standing in the open frontage before 
the hotel. The sound of rushing waters came to 
his ears. He could trace the footpath, and the 
road. But sound was muffled, and the air had 
grown strangely chill. It would be a dreary 
progress to Tavistock. He almost decided to light 
his lamps. True they were going back the same 
way, but he remembered the steep hills, and twists 
and turns, and the chance of meeting other motors, 
and vehicles. Princetown had a curious fascina- 


The Iron Stair 


156 

tion for moorland visitors. While he was looking 
at the dreary scene George Gale came out of the 
hotel and approached him. 

“I am going to ask a favour of you,” he said, 
would rather you did not give my cousin so 
expensive a wedding present. ” 

' ‘ Indeed ! ’ ’ said Aubrey curtly. ^ ‘ What is your 
objection?” 

‘‘The acquaintance seems to me of too recent a 
date to warrant such a gift.” 

“I never go back on a promise,” said Aubrey 
coldly. “Besides, the car is ordered.” 

“It could be countermanded.” 

“If Miss Jessop desires it; not otherwise. She 
is still in a position to express her own wishes, and 
control her own actions.” 

“She is very wilful, and by no means the best 
judge of what is fitting for a young girl to accept 
from a comparative stranger.” 

“You seem bent on starting your married life 
with a grievance!” exclaimed Aubrey. “I under- 
stood the matter was settled when I left you a few 
minutes ago?” 

“I did not wish for a scene, and Renee is quite 
capable of making one. I thought it better to 
appeal to you, your sense of what is due to me and 
our position. ” 

“I was under the impression that the early 
Victorian attitude of obedience and humility was 
no longer a necessity of that position. It seems 
to me a somewhat selfish action on your part to 


For Fettered Limbs Go Lame 157 

wish to deprive your cousin of something to which 
she is looking forward so eagerly. ” 

^^Had I been in Weymouth, ” said Gale savagely, 
‘‘this tour would never have been undertaken. I 
regret that you can't see the matter in the same 
light that I do. I can only repeat that I do not 
consider a motor car a fit possession for a curate's 
wife, with a stipend of a hundred a year. ” 

Aubrey started. “I understood Miss Jessop's 
father was a very wealthy man?” 

“The neighbourhood, and my parishoners, will 
judge of my wife by what they know of me. I 
live humbly and quietly; she must do the same. 
She has consented to marry me; she must suit her 
whims to my standard, not her own!” 

Aubrey’s blood tingled with indignation at the 
insolent attitude and arrogance of the man. With 
difficulty he controlled his temper, for he felt that 
a quarrel under such circumstances would be fatal 
to future acquaintance with Renee. 

“I regret you are adopting such an attitude, ” he 
said at last. “But I never go back on my word. 
The car will be sent here. You may do what you 
please with it after it is here. ” 

He turned on his heel, and went back to the 
stable yard to summon one of the men as assistant 
in raising the hood and lighting the lamps. George 
Gale looked after him; his lips set in a hard line; 
his eyes dark with anger. “Insolent puppy! It’s 
as well he should be shown his place! If he dare 
send that car now ” 


158 


The Iron Stair 


The sentence was unfinished for Renee came to 
the door, and called out that she was ready to 
return. 

It was not pleasant to see her spring to her seat 
beside the driver as if action and attitude were 
frankly familiar. Not pleasant to watch the 
tucking in of rugs, the quick gestures, the questions 
and replies signalling ‘‘off.’* 

The girl waved her hand, the car glided smoothly 
into the misty distance, and George Gale stood 
there looking after it with anger in his eyes and 
murder in his heart, could that heart have been 
read. 

They drove swiftly and silently ; the soft cmtain 
of the mist enfolding them ; in both minds a sense 
of injury and opposition. 

Aubrey said nothing. He was determined that 
hers should be the opening speech, and apparently 
she had no desire to allude to the recent disturb- 
ance. Now and then she stole a look at the grave 
face by her side. How good he had been to her — 
this man — and how hateful to think that someone 
would soon have the right to interfere with their 
frank, delightful intimacy? 

“I suppose,” she said, breaking the silence at 
last, “I couldn’t break it off now?'' 

Aubrey gave a quick startled glance. His 
thoughts had followed hers; he did not question 
what was to be broken off. 

“You are a free agent I imagine in the matter of 


For Fettered Limbs Go Lame 159 


your own future. It is very important. A woman 
should be quite sure, ” 

^^How can one be that? What can we know of 
men before we belong to them? I thought I 
knew George and Geoffrey. But today — well, it 
was a new George. I suppose there will be a new 
Geoffrey — if we ever meet again.” 

Aubrey was silent. In her simple outspoken 
way she had hit upon a truth. The truth that 
underlies sex inequalities, and will underlie them 
as long as there is a world of women and of men. 

What did the one really know of the other, until 
they belonged to each other, in that strange uneasy 
bondage which means everything — or nothing? 


CHAPTER XIII 


“to feel another’s guilt” 

A LIMP and melancholy Renee descended at the 
Bedford, and sought her room without apology or 
explanation. It was left to Aubrey to explain the 
happenings of that last little jaunt. For it was 
the last, and he knew it. Renee refused to come 
down to dinner, and the next morning they set out 
on the return journey. A thing of heat, and dust, 
and speed in which the girl showed little interest or 
enjoyment. 

“When do you go back to London?” she asked 
him, as they drew up at Madame Gascoigne’s 
door. 

“Tomorrow,” he said briefly. “Is this to be 
good-bye, or may I come round for a few moments 
— this evening?” 

She hesitated. Then looked up and met his 
eyes. “Yes, about eight o’clock.” 

Aubrey told the old French lady that he would 
call at that hour, and then drove off weary, dusty, 
dispirited; asking himself why he had ever em- 
barked on so foolish an enterprise. 

The wrench had come at last. The dividing of 
i6o 


To Feel Another’s Guilt 


i6i 


the ways. She would go to Manchester on the 
morrow, he to London and the Albany and the old 
life of which he was so tired. 

He stood in his room, and looked out at the bay 
and the familiar ridge of Portland. Was it only 
a week since he had stood there, alert, eager, keen 
on this project? Willing to sacrifice peace of 
mind, just for a girl’s brief companionship? Well, 
it was all over. He could never have such a tour 
again — ^nor she. At that thought conscience 
pricked him. He had not dealt wisely with this 
girl if, by word, or deed, he had stirred her unut- 
tered discontent into active unhappiness. And 
that she was strangely altered, broodingly un- 
happy, he knew. Was it because of that little 
jarring interlude, or because she had read some- 
thing in George Gale’s eyes which had made her 
uneasy? Aubrey sighed and wondered. Intui- 
tion was a purely feminine gift, and served the 
sex as a safeguard from inexplicable and unspoken 
dangers. Some such flash of intuition had warned 
Renee Jessop of danger in store for herself. With- 
out a word of explanation Aubrey Derringham 
knew that. Knew it, and feared for her, and 
asked himself if it would be more dishonourable 
to interfere, or to leave her to that danger — 
unwarned? 

Renee was in the garden when he went round 
to say farewell. Madame Gascoigne was busy 
unpacking wedding presents and trousseau fineries 
in the room where he had first seen that girlish 


II 


The Iron Stair 


162 

figure in its first abandonment to sorrow. He 
walked out through the open French window, 
and joined her where she stood leaning on the 
railing and looking over the bay. His step made 
no sound on the soft turf. He was beside her 
before she knew it, and he saw that her eyes were 
full of tears. 

He said nothing for a moment, but both had 
learnt to recognize silence as a danger. These long 
pauses, filled by heart beats, unspoken desires, 
tremulous uncertainties, had become part of the 
magical week in which they had learnt to know 
each other, and to fear the knowledge. 

She spoke at last. ‘‘There was a letter from 
Geoffrey. Would you like to see it?” 

Geoffrey had been far from his thoughts. The 
words were like a douche of cold water to a fever 
patient. 

“It is private, isn’t it?” 

“Private? It was read by half a dozen people 
before it was sent ! Even that's forbidden, to write 
as he feels and thinks. But the date is fixed. 
Twelfth of August. Will you go?” 

“You still wish it?” 

^‘Oh — I do, I do! There’s no one else I can 
trust to tell me the real truth!” 

Aubrey was silent. He felt that Fate was driv- 
ing him into a tight comer. When he got there — 
what would happen ? 

Perhaps his face expressed some sense of the 
irony of the situation for she said: “You don’t 


To Feel Another’s Guilt 163 

care about doing it as much as you did — before — 
you met George?” 

“Frankly, I don’t,” he said. “Your cousin may 
take objection to a second intrusion on his private 
affairs. ” 

“His? They are as much mine as his — more! 
He does not love Geoffrey as I do. ” 

“I suppose you would wish me to write a full 
and particular account of — the inteiwiew? Per- 
haps you forget that you’ll be married by 
then?” 

“No, I don’t. How can I?” She half turned, 
and looked at the open window, and the busy figure. 
“All that reminding me!” she went on. “But 
I don’t want you to write, I want to see you. 
Letters are stupid. You’d never tell me all I want 
to know. ” 

‘ ‘ To see me — impossible ! ’ ’ 

Aubrey spoke quickly; a vivid picture before 
his eyes of bleak moorland, and a stem, revengeful 
face. 

“Why — impossible? If I choose to ask you to 
my home who can prevent it ? ” 

“Your — your husband I suppose,” stammered 
Aubrey. “He did not like me. I’m sure he 
wouldn’t care to have me on a visit. ” 

“Ah — ” she said quickly. “You shall stop at 
Two Bridges, and I will come there.” 

Aubrey felt desperate. “Would it be wise? 
Believe me I had better write. ” 

“You don’t want to see me again ! ’ ’ She flashed 


164 


The Iron Stair 


round. “I know, I feel it! Well, I won’t ask 
you . You ’re another disillusion . ’ ’ 

She turned and walked a few steps away. They 
brought her to an iron gate leading to the road 
outside. She opened it and was gone. 

For a moment or two Aubrey stood by the rail- 
ings too confused for action. He saw the white 
figure flash out into the space between the road 
and the sea. He noted its impetuous progress. 
He asked himself should he follow it? Then, with 
a rush of angry pride, he recalled her last words. 
“A disillusion. ” That’s what he was, in a school- 
girl’s memory. 

If that was all why trouble to strengthen the 
impression? He had spent time and thought on 
a thankless service; been the slave of a thousand 
whims and fancies. This was his reward, because 
he would not consent to the role of tame cat in the 
future ! 

One of those extraordinary revulsions of feeling 
that at times rouse a man’s hurt pride to dignity 
swept over his heart. He saw himself the victim 
of an infatuation that had made him do many 
foolish things, and checked the impulse of wise 
ones. He recalled the contemptuous flash of those 
eyes of Renee’s, he watched the young erect figure 
marching into distance, and he said to himself: 
“Better to part so, and now ” 

There was enough anger and indignation be- 
tween them to rob sentiment of any danger. He 


To Feel Another’s Guilt 


165 


could not have held her slender hand and looked 
into her eyes — here — in this enchantment of sea 
and moonlight, without danger. That he con- 
fessed. The confession braced him to action. 
He too turned on impulse and walked swiftly to the 
house. He made a formal speech of farewell to 
the old French lady, and answered her enquiry 
about Renee by saying she was still looking at the 
sea. 

“The poor child, she loves it so; she will hate 
to leave it,” murmured Madame Gascoigne. 
Then she thanked him warmly for the “great 
pleasure” of that motor tour, hoped to see him 
again, when he chanced to visit Weymouth, and 
so accompanied him to the door with all her 
nation’s grace and superfluous compliment. 

Still proud and angered, Aubrey Derringham 
returned to the Gloucester. He went to his room 
conscious of the sudden fatigue of one who has 
laboured hard, and done — nothing. Passion and 
disappointment had burnt up his nervous power 
for the time being. He felt a sudden desire for 
the stir of life, the nostalgia of cities, the restless- 
ness of action. He told himself he had been a fool 
and dreamt a fool’s dream. Yet all the telling and 
all his cynicism could not blind him to one fact. 

His hour had come, and he had rushed to meet 
it. It had come — and gone. 

The next night he was back in his own comfort- 
able quarters in the Albany, ministered to by 


The Iron Stair 


1 66 

Chaffey, and awakened to results of impetuous 
action by a word. 

‘T’ve got the car, sir. A Renault — the very 
thing. The moment I had your telegram I went to 
Long Acre. They showed me all their stock. I 
was allowed to try this. She’s a beauty. Anyone 
could drive her after a couple of lessons. I had 
her put aside for you to see, but I’m sure, sir, 
you’ll agree she’s the very thing for a lady.” 
He looked apologetically at his master’s grave 
face. “Your — ^young lady, sir, might I ask?” 

Aubrey’s lips whitened. “No, you fool, of 
course not ! It’s for a wedding present. ” 

‘ ‘ I beg pardon, sir. Y ou’ll excuse ’ ’ 

“I shall want you to take the car down to its 
destination,” said Aubrey sharply. “You will 
stay with it, and give the lady necessary instruction. 
She is a clergyman’s wife.” 

Astonishment struggled with respect in Chaffey’s 
expressive visage. A clergyman’s wife? Not 
even daughter, or widow? What had come to this 
eccentric master of his? 

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. But you ” 

“Oh, I’m going to — Norway,” said Aubrey 
hurriedly. It was the first name that occurred to 
him. “Yachting,” he added. “I shan’t want 
you. Take a month’s holiday.” 

“Thank you, sir. Might I ask — ^where the lady 
resides, sir?” 

“ Dartmoor, ” said Aubrey. “A little moorland 
parish. Do you know Two BrMges?” 


To Feel Another’s Guilt 


167 

Do I — know?” Chaff ey’s face was a study of 
conflicting emotions. “Do I know Princetown, 
or the old Bailey! You don’t mean to say, sir, 
I’m to go to Dartmoor?” 

“Oh — I forgot!” Aubrey looked at the per- 
turbed face with sudden compassion. “Really 
I never associated you with the place, Chaffey, 
when I arranged this business.” 

“Thank you for that, sir. But it might be a bit 
awkward?” * 

“Nonsense! No one would recognize you now. 
It’s years ago, and a chauffeur’s dress and goggles 
would disguise — the King of England!” 

“That’s true, sir. But when I’m not driving 
where am I to stay?” 

Aubrey reflected. “I think you’ll have to 
decide that for yourself,” he said. “There’s the 
hotel, or perhaps they’d take you in at some 
farm-house, or cottage. I’m not sufficiently ac- 
quainted with the district to mention any par- 
ticular spot. You’ll soon find out. It won’t be 
for long.” 

“Why can’t I stay at the rectory, sir? Doesn’t 
the lady wish it?” 

“There’s no room, no stable even. The car 
will have to be garaged at Two Bridges. Shaps- 
down is five or six miles off, and a very bad road. ” 

“But where will the lady keep her car, sir? 
It will be very inconvenient to have to tramp five 
or six miles whenever she wants it, and back again, 
when she’s done with it?” 


i68 


The Iron Stair 


“I know. But there seemed no other way, at 
present. Perhaps she’ll build a motor house later ' 
on, and keep it there.” 

Chaffey said no more. It was a somewhat 
mysterious business. He wondered if it had 
anything to do with the change in his master? 
With restlessness, late hours, much smoking, and 
absinthe. All of these represented a variation on 
the boredom and cynicism of a former Aubrey 
Derringham. All of them marked the week of 
his return. Then came a morning when a brief 
look at the Manchester Courier, forwarded by 
post, sent him to and fro the outlying districts of 
London as a scourge to poultry, and stray dogs, 
and feeble-minded pedestrians. The nights fol- 
lowing those police-defying expeditions were more 
or less disastrous to former peace and temperance. 
Chaffey was alternately bewildered and alarmed. 
Then he hit upon the clue to the mystery, and 
apostrophized it mentally as “a jade.” The jade 
had something to do with the mysterious wedding 
gift, he felt sure. He became curious as to the 
sort of clergyman’s wife who was to have a car 
of her own, and yet lived in a remote moor- 
land district with impassable roads, and no motor 
accommodation. 

Another week went by in which Aubrey Derring- 
ham watched the posts with feverish anxiety, 
but the expected letter never came. Evidently 
that visit to Geoffrey Gale was not to be paid by 


To Feel Another’s Guilt 


169 


him. He bitterly resented the indifference shown 
to his existence; he thought out and wrote a do^en 
different letters in which irony and hurt feelings 
and studied indifference struggled for adequate 
expression. He sent none of them. And then 
one morning Chaffey came to him brimful of that 
mysterious sort of information he always managed 
to obtain. 

“You know that young chap, sir, as was had up 
for the forgery case, well, they say he tried to break 
out of prison. He’s forfeited all good conduct 
privileges, and they’ve drafted him to Dartmoor. ” 

Aubrey was startled into something more than 
attention. Was this outbreak the result of that 
privileged visit which no one had troubled to pay? 
Had the boy been driven to desperation by neglect 
and coldness ? Was Aubrey himself, in a manner, 
the cause of these renewed hardships, he, and his 
petty scruples and his paltry human dignity? 
He looked at Chaffey’s perturbed face, and read in 
it a great pity and regret. 

“It will be harder, there, will it?” asked Aubrey. 

‘ ' Harder ! I believe you, sir ! ’Tis a cold, brutal, 
dreary place, and they works you to death, and 
the poor chap, he won’t get no letters, nor visitors 
now. ” 

But Aubrey Derringham’s mind was far away, 
drifting over a sea of strange happenings. A boy’s 
face of white despair, staring from a dock; a 
girl’s tear-filled eyes. A misty space of bare wide 
moorland through which trickled the music of a 


170 


The Iron Stair 


stream; the savage fury in a voice proclaiming 
what was due to a husband’s right of decision. 
The chill of estrangement, of misunderstanding, 
laid its cold touch upon his heart once again. He 
saw a white figure fiying into distance, outlined 
against a moonlit sky, a width of waters. That 
had been their parting. No word, no sign since 
then. She was disillusioned, he was savagely 
affronted. That visit to the prison had never been 
paid, and now Geoffrey Gale was to be immured 
in that stony, impregnable fortress set amidst a 
moorland waste, standing as a memory in its 
desolation. A constant reminder to the girl who 
would be within sight and reach of it before many 
days were over her head. 

Chaffey coughed an apologetic reminder of his 
presence. Aubrey started and came back to 
facts. 

“Oh — you’re there still ! I forget. ... You 
were saying ” 

“I was goin’ to say, sir, that it seems queer, 
don’t it?’’ 

“Queer?’’ 

“That I should be goin’ up there now, to Two 
Bridges didn’t you say, and he at Princetown. 
Seems as if we couldn’t get away from him, sir, 
somehow. ” 

A harsh groan escaped Aubrey Derringham. 
“I wish to God, Chaffey — ’’ he said, “that you’d 
never persuaded me to go and hear that Forgery 
Case. ” 


CHAPTER XIV 


''whose feet might not go free” 

It was unusual for Aubrey Derringham to linger 
on in London after the season had sounded its note 
of dissolution. Altogether unlike him to frequent 
Park and Club in an endeavour to secure any sort 
of companionship favourable to any sort of interest 
that would pass away the hours from noon till 
midnight. 

One such endeavour found him the host at a 
small dinner given at his own Club to two or three 
bachelor acquaintances. One of them was Joshua 
Myers, the barrister. 

Aubrey had come across him by chance, and 
given a hasty and accepted invitation. He learnt 
that the Daniel Schultzes were at Cowes, and that 
the beautiful Miriam had not captured her Duke- 
let after all. Musical comedy had rivalled her. 
As consolation she had hurriedly secured a foreign 
Count, who hailed from Italy, and was concerned 
with Argentine prospects. 

Myers expressed some natural surprise that 
Aubrey Derringham was not at society’s aquatic 
pleasure resprt. The “yachting trip to Norway” 


172 


The Iron Stair 


served as an explanation, but the keen-eyed bar- 
rister read something amiss. This was not the 
languid, bored man of fashion whom his set and his 
Club had known so long. Neither was it quite the 
curious questioner who had studied the pros and 
cons of criminal technique — up to a certain point. 
Something had roused him from languor to rest- 
lessness, had quickened his sympathies to life, 
and yet left him actively dissatisfied. 

“Are you as much interested in the psychology 
of crime as you were, Mr. Derringham?’’ he asked, 
in an endeavour to secure Aubrey’s wandering 
attention. 

“ I — oh, yes! It’s a subject that has its fascina- 
tion as well as its dangers. ” 

“You mean — that a criminal can cease to be 
an abstract figure in the general outlook?” 

Aubrey gave him a surprised glance. “Why 
do you say that?” 

“Am I right?” 

“I don’t know any — criminal, other than the 
press, or the pages of a novel have introduced to 
me.” 

“ I thought you knew that young Gale, who was 
sentenced for forgery some months ago?” 

Aubrey’s face remained impassive. “No, I 
don’t know him. ” 

‘ ‘ His family, then ? ’ ’ 

“What makes you think so?” 

“That little matter requesting permission to 
visit Portland, for one thing.” 


Whose Feet Might Not Go Free 173 


^‘But he was not at Portland. ” 

^‘Not then.” 

“Do you mean to say he is there now? I 
thought it was Dartmoor?” 

Then Myers smiled. “Didn’t I say you were 
interested. How else could you know he had been 
drafted to Dartmoor? The press gives no infor- 
mation of that sort.” 

Aubrey was at a loss for explanation. How 
could he say that he had learnt of this fact by 
accident, when no accident could have betrayed it. 

“I met his brother, up on the moors,” he said 
suddenly. 

“His brother, the curate?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, but I wonder how he knew! The boy 
was foolish enough to try to escape. That 
brought the rigours of prison law upon him. He 
had td forego privileges, and do harsher tasks. 
That’s why he’s being transferred.” 

“Dartmoor is as impregnable as Portland, isn’t 
it?” asked Aubrey. 

“Not quite. There have been escapes from the 
moor. Portland is guarded by sea and land both. 
It’s next to impossible to get away from there. 
You were near Princetown then? Had you the 
curiosity to visit the famous prison?” 

“No. I was at Tavistock, and only motored 
a little over the moors. I did not go near Prince- 
town. ” 

“And yet,” thought Myers, “you were keen on 


174 


The Iron Stair 


seeing Portland, and you knew — somehow — that 
young Gale is going to Dartmoor. ” 

Aubrey turned the conversation to a more 
frivolous topic. A new star of musical comedy 
whose advent, late in the season, had heralded 
lucrative engagements for the Autumn. 

^Tt was good of her Grace of Barleycorn to 
retire in her favour,” said Aubrey. “One star 
goes out that another may shine. ” 

“And she shines best who shines last,” said 
young Forrester of the Guards, who was famed for 
non-copyright epigrams. 

“Her voice isn’t up to much,” said Myers. 
“It’s like listening to the mechanical complainings 
of a motor car. ” 

“How cruel!” said the young guardsman. 
“As if the voice mattered, in musical comedy.” 

“I thought it did. Excuse my ignorance.” 

Aubrey laughed. “Unlimited cheek, and fas- 
cinating outlines are the stock in trade. Shall we 
go to the smoking-room?” 

There was a general movement. As they left 
the table a page came up to Aubrey and handed him 
a letter. He glanced at it carelessly enough. The 
writing was unknown. Then he looked at the post- 
mark. With a sudden flush, he turned aside, and 
opened the envelope. Very brief were its contents. 

“Dear Mr. Motor-man: 

“I’ve been a beast. Do forgive me. I’m back 
again on the moor. Am I to have my Runabout? 


Whose Feet Might Not Go Free 175 


Or have I been too wicked and ungrateful for 
forgiveness? 

“Your unhappy little friend, 

“Renee.” 

Aubrey crushed up the letter, and thrust it into 
his pocket. What a child she was, and how appar- 
ently unchanged! How could he have harboured 
such resentful feelings against her? He felt as if 
a sudden weight had been removed from his heart. 
As if a troubled dream had given place to morning’s 
light and glory. He followed his three friends into 
the smoking-room, and astonished them by a burst 
of wild spirits, disjointed witticisms. 

No one was more surprised than Joshua Myers. 

What had changed lassitude and cynicism into 
eager enjoyment ? Brought smiles to the lip, and 
joy to the eye, and a certain rollicking lightness 
to the voice of this incomprehensible man? A 
woman? A message in that letter? Surely this 
and nothing else could account for the change 
brought in a moment of time ? 

“The common fate of the common multitude,” 
he thought to himself. “I wonder who she is? 
His tastes are too exclusive for light loves, or 
passing amourettes. I wish I could see the post- 
mark of that letter. ” 

If he had seen it he would have been more 
bewildered than ever. What was there in common 
between this aristocrat of Clubland and a little 
insignificant townlet on the wild moors of Devon? 


176 


The Iron Stair 


Two days later a car was running merrily over 
the hilly twisting road from Moreton to Two 
Bridges. It held two occupants, both men, 
capped, coated, goggled to face that wind-swept 
desolation, which is the happy meeting ground of 
every wind that blows. Merrily the little car 
sped up hill and down, dipped into hollows, 
breasted stony heights, hummed its merry song of 
speed and progress as the miles fell back, and fin- 
ally drew up before that delightful hostelry which 
defies even mist and cold to lessen its attractions. 

At the doorway stood a slender figure, watching 
with intent eyes the graceful down-coming of that 
pale grey Renault. Renee’s figure and Renee’s 
welcoming voice. Yet Aubrey was conscious of a 
shock as of one who expecting a friend meets a 
stranger. 

“I didn’t think you would come, ” she said, and 
then a hot flush crept from throat to cheek, and 
spread to the delicate temples. Her eyes fell. 
There was something in them to hide now. She 
knew it and he recognized it. He broke the 
embarrassed pause by a murmured apology for his 
presence. 

“I wanted to be sure it was all right. I came 
with Chaff ey, but I’m not going to stop. ” 

“But is that the car? Oh! it’s much too good! 
What a perfect little beauty! I thought it was 
only going to be a little wheelbarrow sort of thing, 
or I wouldn’t have written! That’s fit for a 
princess. ” 


Whose Feet Might Not Go Free 177 

“It is for you, “ he said gravely, “if you will 
honour me by its acceptance. ” 

“I don’t know what George will say!” 

She was looking at the grey cushions ; the bright 
brass, the beautiful “latest” improvements that 
specialized this splendid wedding gift. 

Aubrey Derringham heard an unpleasant re- 
minder in those words. “Haven’t you settled 
the matter with him?” he asked. 

“Oh! I told him I expected the car. He only 
said: ‘I hope it won’t prove more trouble than 
pleasure.’ ” 

“He — is not here?” asked Aubrey, glancing 
round with involuntary repugnance. 

‘ ‘ No. He is busy with some parish work. Oh ! 
may I try it?” It was the old Renee, impulsive, 
eager for the moment’s joy, casting care to the 
winds of chance. 

“Try it? Of course! ShaU I come with you, 
or Chaffey?” 

“Oh, you, please!” She twisted a motor scarf 
round her small close-fitting hat, as Chaffey left 
his steering wheel, and went to the stable yard for 
water. 

‘ ‘ She’s gone beautifully, ’ ’ said Aubrey. ' ‘We’ve 
come on from Exeter. Did it in a little over an 
hour. How’s that ? ’ ’ 

She smiled up at him; less radiantly than of old. 
“Splendid! What a gem! Show me the mechan- 
ism, will you?” 

He explained briefly. “It’s so easy and so 


12 


178 


The Iron Stair 


light/' he said, “after my big Mercedes. You’ll 
be quite at home with it in a couple of hours. ” 

Then came the lesson, an easy one for both. 
A thing of trials, and speeds, of hill flights and 
turns. Renee’s light hand and quick eye served 
her well. The car had no complicated gears and 
levers to worry her. She brought it back to the 
hotel, and to the admiring Chaffey in a mood of 
ecstasy. Not one word had she or Aubrey said of 
that parting “tiff,” or of her marriage. It was 
the immediate moment for both. No more; no 
less. The car took up all their attention, and 
repaid it. 

“You will stay and have some tea?” she said, 
as they drew up before the hotel again. 

Aubrey hesitated. “I was going on to Tavi- 
stock,” he said. “If I may borrow your car, 
Chaffey will bring it back. It can stay here until 
you make other arrangements. He remains for a 
week or more, as you desire. ” 

“But — do I need him?” 

Aubrey smiled. “I think it would be better to 
have someone, just at first. ” 

“You’re coming in?” 

She moved towards the door and he followed her. 
Chaffey watched them, and muttered below his 
breath: “Clergyman’s wife! Golly! Here’s a 
lark!” 

They had tea in the charming chintz room, and 
Renee presided with matronly dignity. There 


Whose Feet Might Not Go Free 179 


was no one else there, and they soon dropped into 
the old friendly duologue. It almost seemed as if 
those intervening weeks had had no existence. 
Once Aubrey found himself wondering whether 
she knew that Geoffrey Gale was to be sent to 
Princetown? Might even be there already. He 
did not like to mention the fact, and she did not 
allude to her cousin. It appeared she had been 
to Paris, which was hot and stuffy, and crowded 
with English and American tourists. 

“Not a bit like Madame Gascoigne's Paris, ” she 
said. ■ “The only thing I liked was the steamers, 
going up and down the river, and once I went to 
Versailles to see the fountains, I suppose you 
know Paris very well?” 

“Almost as well as London. It was the wrong 
time of year to go. Didn’t you know that ? ” 

“I?” She looked at him and again that hot 
flush crept up to her temples. “I had nothing to 
do with it. George said we were going, and we 
went. ” 

An embarrassed silence followed. Aubrey drank 
his tea, and trifled with the cake on his plate, and 
wondered what to say next. She saved him the 
trouble of a subject by asking if he was staying in 
London. “I wrote to your Club on chance. I 
hardly thought you’d be there. I suppose you 
thought it was awfully cheeky of me?” 

“Not at all. I was — delighted.” 

“ I was so afraid we shouldn’t be friends again, ” 
she said softly. “You’ve no idea how horrid I 


i8o 


The Iron Stair 


felt. A dozen times I tried to write, and couldn’t. 
I said to myself: “He’s gone off without a word. 
He’s really offended this time!” 

Aubrey laughed despite the gravity of her own 
expression. “I should have sent the car all the 
same, ” he said. 

‘ ‘ Would you — really ? How good you are to me ! 
I wish I could do something for you in return. 
But there — ^you’re rich and happy, and life must be 
just splendid.” 

“Not altogether — happy,” he said. “But who 
is? Except a child who lives in and for the mo- 
ment, and asks nothing of the future.” 

“That’s what I was,” she said gravely. “It 
seems so long ago — now. ” 

That almost broke down his fund of 

reserve. His determination to ask nothing, hear 
nothing of changed conditions. 

“I don’t lack brains. I’m not a fool,” she 
went on rapidly. “But, it appears one must only 
speak, think, act, as directed, when one is married. ” 

Aubrey was silent. She had referred to the 
subject at last, and as she referred to it he thought 
of the wilful imperious girl who had been his 
companion for one magical week. She had seemed 
happy then, and content. Her face had been 
eloquent of life and joy. It was grave now, and 
perplexed, and the eyes were shadowed by unrest. 

“Did you know it would be like that?” she 
said abruptly. “Are all men tyrants? It is 
cruel that we are not allowed to know, that we are 


Whose Feet Might Not Go Free i8i 

kept ignorant, and then — snap — the chains are 
round us, fast and sure. Ugh — it’s hateful!” 

She sprang up and went to the window. Aubrey 
felt powerless. What could he say or do? The 
situation was at once delicate and perplexing. 
He rose also, and rang the bell and paid for the tea. 
As the waiter left the room, she turned and came 
back. There were traces of tears in her eyes. 
They looked up at Aubrey as a child’s eyes might 
look; a child wounded and hurt, and unconscious 
of doing anything to deserve the hurt. 

A wave of hot anger surged through the young 
man’s breast ; his whole body seemed one nerve of 
fierce repressed feeling. He was a man, and she 
only a child. A child rudely awakened to the 
meaning of life and womanhood; rebelling in- 
stinctively against the fate which had made her 
helpless before the tyranny of nature, imploring 
help when no help was or could be given. 

He sent her home in the car with Chaffey. At 
least it was to take her as far as the road rendered 
progress possible. “And remember,” he said, as 
he bade her farewell, “it is yours, and you are to 
do what you like with it. The man here will clean 
it and look after it, and come every day for your 
orders, when Chaffey leaves.” 

“I can’t thank you, ” she said brokenly. “But 
— if it’s any good to know it you’ve done the one 
and only thing that could bring a little pleasure 
into my life. Am I to see you — ever again?” 


The Iron Stair 


182 

“Oh, yes, I hope so,” he said huskily. “If you 
wish it. You know my address. A word there 
will always find me. ” 

“I shan’t forget,” she said, and gave him her 
hand. 

He put the light rug about her, as if it were part 
of the car, and went with it, and watched her pull 
the lever and clasp the steering wheel. Chaff ey 
grave and impassive sat by her side. She threw 
back a smile and waved her hand. 

“It’s not good-bye, ’ ’ she cried, ‘ ‘ only au repair! ’ ’ 

Then the grey car and the slender grey figure 
melted into the faint rose of the fading twilight. 
Aubrey Derringham listened to the throb of the 
engine, and the little tinkle of the stream as it 
flowed beneath the bridge. There came to his 
heart at that moment a sudden chill of fear. He 
could not say what he feared, or why. He only 
knew that like a spectre out of the dusk it crept 
up to, and close to him ; so near, so close, that the 
fever died out of his veins, and his pulses seemed 
to beat by sheer effort. 

“What’s come to me?” he thought, and glanced 
round and about half fearful of some tangible 
presence to be translated into meaning. But there 
was no one. Nothing. Only from afar a faint 
“hoot,” like a signal of farewell, and below at his 
feet the ever murmuring stream. 


CHAPTER XV 


“and by each side a warder walked*' 

A WEEK had passed and still Aubrey Derringham 
lingered on in town, though now he avoided the 
more public thoroughfares and dined at queer 
restaurants, or river-side hotels. 

No word came from the moors. Nothing from 
Chaffey or from her. He was again conscious of 
impatience and desire. Why couldn’t the fool 
send some sort of information ? But there seemed 
nothing to do save wait his return. 

It happened unexpectedly. Chaffey walked 
into the Albany and presented himself to his 
master one evening as if he had never left the one 
or neglected the other. 

Aubrey was smoking discontentedly and trying 
to make up his mind what special restaurant or 
grill-room he would seek. The sight of his errant 
servitor roused him to immediate activity. 

“So you’re back, Chaffey?” 

“To the day, sir, the hour I might say.” 

“I expected to hear from you, ” said his master. 

“Did you, sir? You never mentioned it. I 
didn’t like to take the liberty.” 

183 


1 84 


The Iron Stair 


‘‘Well, well, perhaps it was my fault. How did 
you get on?” 

“Very satisfactory, sir; the lady’s a wonder. 
Drives like a professional I might say. And the 
car’s quite satisfactory, as I said, sir. Not even a 
puncture yet.” 

“I’m glad to hear it. Where did you put 
up?” 

“At the hotel, sir. I happened to know one 
of the ostlers ; made it more companionable 
like.” 

“I — I suppose so. And the young lady, how is 
she?” 

“In health, sir, she seems all right. But as 
far as spirits goes a bit — fiuctuaty — shall I say, sir. 
One day as bright and cheery as a spring morning, 
next, clouded-like and sad, and hardly a word for 
anyone. It’s queer, sir, for I take it she’s in her 
bridal days, leastwise I heard so.” 

Aubrey moved impatiently. “Did she go out 
every day?” 

“Every day, and pretty well all day, sir. There 
ain’t much of Dartmoor that we couldn’t give 
account of. A queer place it is, sir, when you 
begins to move about in it, so to say. I came 
across surprisin’ places, hid away so that no one 
would ever have thought they was there. ” 

“What sort of places?” 

“Them ‘Glitters,’ sir, as they calls them; little 
sort o’ huts built o’ them at foot of the tors. 
Queer sort o’ farm houses too with scarce grazing 


And by each Side a Warder Walked 185 


for a couple o* sheep, or a stray head o* cattle. 
There was one place, sir, we came across, the 
yoimg lady she was wonderful took with it. 

^‘Indeed?” 

Chaffey being fairly launched on his subject 
might be trusted to go on. 

“Yes, sir. It was a little house, the queerest 
little place, in a hollow o* the moorland, sheltered 
by a big stretch of them tors, and a stream running 
along at end of the garden. There was a garden, 
sir, and cultivated proper as if someone had lived 
there and taken a deal o’ trouble with it. Nothing 
would suit the young lady but to go in and see the 
house. It was empty and the door unlocked. We 
went in, sir. I was surprised. Quite a nice room, 
and a kitchen, and two bedrooms above. A bit 
dusty and derlapidated of course, but not a bad 
little shooting-box, so to say. ” 

Aubrey felt interested. “Was no one living 
there?” 

“No, sir, but there had been. An eccentric sort 
o’ writing gent, I was told.” 

“Who told you?” 

“Bill Ockment, sir, the ostler I spoke of.” 

“And so you explored the place?” 

“Yes, sir. That young lady, well she did go on 
about it, sir. As pretty as a child with a doll’s 
house it was to see her and hear her. She said 
as how you ought to take it, sir, and come up and 
stay on the moor summer times.” 

“I!” Aubrey was conscious of sudden height- 


The Iron Stair 


1 86 

ened colour. “Why in the world should I do 
such a thing ?“ 

“It would be a change, sir, of course. And 
quiet — there's only fishing, and walking, as you’re 
not a h’artist, or a writer. But since you’ve 
begun to take more interest in life, sir, it might 
bear thinking of. ’Tis wonderful how one gets 
to love these sort o’ places. Makes one feel clean 
and strong somehow. Beg pardon, sir, I’m talking 
too free perhaps? It comes of bein’ away so long. ” 

Aubrey had seated himself by the window, his 
face in shadow. 

“Go on,’’ he said. “I don’t mind. I was 
getting a bit sick of my own company. ’’ 

“I was half expecting to find you’d started, sir.” 

“Started?” 

“For Norway, as you said, sir.” 

“Oh, yes, of course. It’s put off till later; end 
of the month. ” 

“I see, sir. And you’re not going to Cowes?” 

“No,” said Aubrey abruptly. 

He wished Chaffey would take into his head to 
tell him less of that Dartmoor district and more of 
Renee herself. But he hesitated to put leading 
questions. 

After a moment the man resumed the subject of 
that moorland retreat. 

“I do wish you could see that house, sir. I’m 
sure you’d feel it was worth getting hold of, just to 
run down to when you wants to be quiet. Spring 
time or summer it would be lovely. ” 


And by each Side a Warder Walked 187 


“ Oh — is it to be let?” asked Aubrey carelessly. 

“Yes, sir, or sold. So Bill Ockment told me. 
Belongs to a old lady in Tavistock. She built it 
for her son. He's dead, and she don't want it any 
more. A hundred pounds would buy it.” 

Aubrey laughed. “You seem to have your eye 
on the place. Chaff ey,” he said. “I suppose you 
see it as an old-age pension reserved for faithful 
services?” 

“No, sir. It never entered my head. It was 
only you I was a-thinkin' of.” 

Aubrey wondered why a fresh temptation should 
have to be met? For it was a temptation. The 
idea of securing for himself a little retreat within 
reach of the girl who had called him friend, and 
who might one day need a friend's help and counsel. 
He wondered whether Chaffey had ever seen 
George Gale? It was odd he had not mentioned 
him. 

“And so she used the car every day?” he ob- 
served, with as casual a manner as he could 
assume. “Didn't she ever drive her husband 
in it?” 

“She said he was afraid to trust himself with 
her, sir. ” 

“But not afraid of her coming to any harm?” 

“It seemed so, sir. I didn't like the gent, if I 
may say so. I only saw him once. That was at the 
hotel. I think he'd been — drinking a bit. ” 

“What!” Aubrey turned quickly. “Surely 
you're mistaken, Chaffey? He's a clergyman.” 


The Iron Stair 


1 88 

I know, sir, but a clergyman’s only a man, ain’t 
he, sir? And there’s good and bad of them same 
as other men.” 

“Of course. Their cloth can cover sins as well 
as proclaim virtues. But Mr. Gale ” 

“Yes, sir. He’s the brother o’ that poor yoimg 
chap. We’ve come round to that, sir. I was half 
afraid to tell you. I’ve seen him, sir. ” 

“Seen who?” 

“Geoffrey Gale, sir.” 

“Good God! Is that so?” Aubrey sprang up 
impulsively. “You’ve been a long time getting to 
the kernel of your nut. Where did you see him? ” 

“Just goin’ in at the prison gates, sir, one after- 
noon. Two and two, poor chaps; chained in 
couples they was, like dogs. I saw him quite 
distinctly, sir. So — did she. ” 

“Miss Renee — I mean Mrs. Gale?” 

“Yes, sir. It was awful, sir, for a moment. I 
could have cried like a baby. There — I couldn’t 
help it, sir; those two young faces, pale as death, 
and their eyes, his eyes! My, what a story they 
told!” 

Aubrey was silent, deeply moved; his imagina- 
tion stirred to kindred sympathy. The old jeal- 
ousy lived again at thought of that meeting, at 
thought of what it meant for her if she loved the 
supposed criminal and had given herself to his 
accuser. 

“Then she did go to Princetown?” he said, very 
low. 


And by each Side a Warder Walked 189 


“Quite against my wishes, sir. But she would 
go. And it happened just as I feared. . . . 
Lor, sir, the way she cried, afterwards, and the 
things she said, as I drove her home. ‘Couldn’t 
I help her to get a word with him? Couldn’t 
some message be sent?’ I told her to ask her 
husband to go and see the chaplain. It might do 
some good. But she just looked at me. I don’t 
know, sir, if you’ve ever seen her look like that? 
Sort of way a child does when you’ve struck it, 
and it hasn’t done nothing to deserve it. And then 
not another word did she say all the way home.” 

“When was this?” 

“The last day, sir, we was out. Yesterday, of 
course. It seems longer somehow.” 

Silence followed. 

“Shall I turn on the light, sir? ” 

Aubrey started. “No, not yet. I’m going out. ” 

“ Can I get out your evening things, sir? ” 

“No, Chaffey. I’m not going to dress. I 
think I shall take the car, and nm down to Rich- 
mond. ” 

“Shall I drive it, sir?” 

“Yes.” 


Aubrey Derringham knew why he had said that 
“yes.” It was an excuse to hear more, without 
expressing a desire to do so. And Chaffey was 
not reticent. 

During the drive to Richmond he continued his 
narrative. He threw the side-lights of his shrewd 


1 90 


The Iron Stair 


observation on many points concerning Ren6e 
and her husband. He had seen the old rectory 
too where the ancient vicar resided. He had seen 
him also. 

“Doddering, sir, next door to a lunatic, so it 
seemed to me. Mr. Gale’s house is very small and 
dark and unwholesome-looking. A dreary place 
for that beautiful young lady. I think, sir, if 
you’ll excuse the liberty of saying so, that that 
there car will be the saving o’ her reason. Enough 
to give one melingcholics that place is. A parish 
compounded o’ ancient tipplers, and scoldin’ dirty 
shrews o’ women. And the farm houses scattered 
like plums in a work’us pudding. Such folk too; 
with their queer talk, and their queer little houses, 
and their dreadful ignorance. I feel sorry for the 
young lady that I do. And now, since she’s got 
to know her cousin’s up there at Princetown, 
well, sir, I leave you to conjekture what it means. 
There’s another thing too. If anything happened 
to that little Renault? I used to think that often. 
It would have to be sent to Tavistock to be re- 
paired, and what would she do meantime. They 
don’t keep any sort o’ car at the hotel, nor yet at 
Post Town. ” 

“That’s true!” exclaimed Aubrey. “The best 
car isn’t infallible. And we know what ‘repairing ’ 
means, even here in town. A provincial garage 
might take a month where a week would suffice. ” 

“And you can’t give her two cars, sir. That’s 
where the white elephant comes in. ” 


And by each Side a Warder Walked 191 


Aubrey was silent for a while meditating the 
point. 

“ Chaff ey, ” he said suddenly, '‘did — Mr. Gale — 
ever see you, or speak to you?*' 

“He only saw me once, sir. That day when he 
was — well, what I told you he was. And then I 
had my goggles on. No, I never spoke to him, so 
to say.” 

“He wouldn’t know you if he met you, without 
your chauffeur’s dress?” 

“No, sir. I’m sure he wouldn’t. ” 

“Then, Chaff ey, I see nothing for it but — that 
old-age pension!” 

“Sir!” Astonishment very nearly meant a 
collision with a passing cart. Some bad language 
punctuated the difference of opinion that ensued. 

“Yes, I mean it. I’ll take that queer house, 
and you shall be its owner, and have a small 
Runabout for emergencies. You need not betray 
who you are to anyone in the neighbourhood. In 
fact, you may be a naturalist, or an artist, or some 
equally unassuming tenant. You might even have 
an occasional lodger. As you said, Chaffey, the 
whole region of Dartmoor is full of interest. I have 
no doubt we should find plenty, if we sought it. ” 

“We — sir?” 

“You’re not going to object to a country life, 
and a pension, are you, even if hampered by an 
occasional lodger ? ’ ’ 

“No, sir. I think it’s a fine idea. I was only 
wondering about — you?” 


192 


The Iron Stair 


“What about me?” 

“Well, sir, who’s to do for you, and drive the car, 
and see to things here? I don’t wish to be super- 
seded, if I may say so, sir. ” 

“You shan’t be, Chaffey. I’ll have only a 
temporary valet. As for the car I can be my own 
chauffeur, you know, and the garage people will 
keep it in order. ” 

“It will be a bit dull don’t you think, sir? At 
least once the summer’s gone. Terrible desolate 
that moor is in winter time. ” 

“One can brave desolation — occasionally,” said 
Aubrey. 

“Yes, sir, but, if you’ll excuse me sayin’ it, how 
long is this to go on, sir ? ” 

“To go on?” Aubrey reflected over that ques- 
tion. “It is you who are responsible for it, 
Chaffey,” he said presently. 

“I— sir!” 

“You interested me in that forgery case. But 
for you I should never have troubled about the 
fate of young Gale. Never seen Miss Jessop, 
never ” 

“Taken her motoring, sir?” 

‘ ‘ I suppose not. One thing led to another. It’s 
led me on, and now it must lead you. Heaven 
knows how far!” 

“Or how long, sir? Perhaps you haven’t 
thought of thatV' 

The lights of Richmond Bridge flashed over the 
darkness of the river. 


And by each Side a Warder Walked 193 


Yes, ” said Aubrey. “I have thought of that. 
As long as Geoffrey Gale is in prison, ” 

Chaffey was silent till the bridge was crossed. 
Then he said: ‘‘Yours to command, sir!” 

Master and man dined in their respective fashion 
at the Star and Garter. Aubrey had ordered the 
car for ten o’clock, and told Chaffey to have a 
good square meal. He strolled down to the river 
when he had finished his coffee and “fine cham- 
pagne,'* and stood watching the boats and punts 
as they moved to and fro; listening to the voices 
that stirred the air with laughter and melody. It 
seemed to him that this should be her life: joy, 
gaiety, song, and melody, not that dreary moorland 
and that desolate home of which Chaffey had 
spoken. His heart ached for her lost girlhood, 
and her shadowed fate. That fate with which he 
now seemed irretrievably entangled. Come what 
might he could not leave her friendless. The hint 
of George Gale’s failing had filled him with sudden 
alarm. A young inexperienced girl could not cope 
with horrors of that description. It was not 
right or fitting that she should. He thought of 
that week of intimate confidences, interests, revela- 
tions. Of how she had trusted him, openly 
announcing happiness as a daily factor in their 
lives. Then of her little spurt of anger on that 
night of parting. Her quick spontaneous accept- 
ance of renewed friendship; the tender gratitude 
in her eyes when she spoke of his gift as “the one 
and only thing that would bring a little pleasure 


13 


194 


The Iron Stair 


into her life. ” Well, that was something. When- 
ever she used the car, or felt it obey her touch, and 
carry her where she willed, she would think of him. 
She might even acknowledge that “disillusion” 
didn’t mean severance of friendship. And, if in 
any time of stress, or trouble, she felt he was near 
at hand, the fact might give her courage to bear 
what, he knew, she would have to bear. 

The river murmured at his feet, the cool air 
swept across his face as he stood bare-headed 
gazing down at the shining water. In that mo- 
ment Aubrey Derringham touched a greater height 
of selflessness than he had ever reached. Felt 
that to renounce and to suffer were better things 
than to selfishly grasp the moment’s joy. 

The appeal made to him by a girl’s fresh youth 
and loveliness had been the appeal of sex. The 
appeal made by a woman’s martyrdom meant a 
call to honour as well as a call to the unselfish 
depths of an unacknowledged passion. 

As he ran through the whole sequence of im- 
pressions made by Renee Jessop he was stirred to 
an intense pity for the life so strangely set to 
tragic meanings. He felt he could not put it aside 
from his own save by some stronger intervention 
than had yet dealt with their joint fate. For 
George Gale he was conscious only of a feeling of 
contempt. The man was a coward, and selfish, 
and weak too as only cowards are weak. He 
had the courage to persecute, but not to defend. 
That he loved Renee was undoubted, but it was 


And by each Side a Warder Walked 195 


the cruel, exacting love of a tyrant who claims a 
slave, and shuns a conqueror. 

As Aubrey turned back to the hotel he knew that 
the lethargy and boredom had gone out of his life 
for ever. Henceforth it was dedicated to an 
unasked service for which it could expect no re- 
ward, nor claim it. 


CHAPTER XVI 


'‘robbed of its prey” 

Autumn winds howled and raged, and autumn 
rains swept fiercely over the wild wastes of Dart- 
moor. Up on the heights a man could scarcely 
stand against the raging gale. Down in the 
valleys it was a moan and a protest, rising at 
times to a spiteful effort at destruction of all 
the hardy produce that had been guarded and 
stacked and fenced about in an endeavour to 
preserve some bounty of nature against her er- 
ratic cruelties. 

A queer little house sheltered itself under the 
protecting sides of a giant tor. It was built of 
stone and roofed with granite, and had queer small 
windows, and a big comfortable living-room very 
plainly furnished. It held merely a table, a 
dresser, some chairs, and one big deep Chesterfield 
couch, that stood by the open fireplace. A range 
of low bookshelves ran round the side of the wall, 
filled with odd volumes and quaint bits of pottery, 
and here and there a photograph or tiny picture 
framed in dark oak, and in no way distinctive. 
The walls had been distempered in a mellow orange 
196 


197 


Robbed of its Prey 

colour which contrasted well with the beams of 
the ceiling, and the dark panelling below. 

A great wood fire burnt in the open hearth 
guarded by a tiled curb. It was the only light. 
It gave a rich and glowing tone to the room, and 
played over the dark oak dresser and its queer 
load of delf and pewter. 

The one adjective that described the room was 

comfort. ’ ’ On the floor were warm richly coloured 
rugs, on the big couch some square tapestry 
cushions. Every chair was low and deep and 
delightful as a seat. The old gate-table held a big 
pewter bowl of autumn leaves and berries; before 
the fire lay a little fox terrier with black ears, and 
thrown back in a chair opposite the big Chester- 
field was the occupant of the place. 

At first sight no one would have recognized 
him as “gentleman’s man,” or “chauffeur,” or 
any of the attributes that had really meant him 
a few months previously. His face was tanned to 
rosy healthfulness, he looked stouter, though that 
fact may have been only an excuse of loose-fitting 
tweed clothes; his hair had been suffered to grow 
long, and he wore a moustache and beard, both 
of a grizzled and elderly nature that might have 
meant fifty years of age, and indifference to 
personal appearance. 

He was smoking a pipe, and conversing at inter- 
vals to the terrier whose eye and tail gave eloquent 
attention to the subject of discussion. 

“He ought to be here you know. Boxer. A wild 


198 


The Iron Stair 


night, and the mist thick on the moor. Can’t 
think what’s come to him, always up there nigh 
them quarries. ” 

He lifted his head suddenly and seemed to listen. 
The little dog gave a sudden sharp bark. 

Chaffey, for it was the ex-valet of Aubrey Der- 
ringham, crossed the room and went to the front 
door, and opened it. A wild gust of wind swept 
over him and into the hall behind. The heavy 
curtain of rain and mist blotted out everything 
else. 

He was just about to close the door when a 
faint '‘hoot” stopped him. There came the 
sound of a car approaching at incautious speed, 
over the ill-made strip of road, whose construction 
had been one of Chaffey’s methods of passing 
time. 

A voice called to him from the darkness. 

“ Chaff ey! here, quick!” 

It was his master’s voice. He closed the door 
behind him and went forward. A ray of firelight 
shone from the window and shot across the inter- 
vening space. It showed the dim outline of a car. 
Beside the driver was something crouched and 
huddled together, as if it had slipped from the seat. 
Chaffey came up and tried to peer into the dim- 
ness. A voice hoarse and hurried gave rapid 
orders. 

“Get him out, for God’s sake! He’s half dead! 
Don’t speak! Don’t ask anything! Do what I 
say!” 


Robbed of its Prey 


199 


A limp figure was lifted, thrust into his arms, and 
the man staggered back to the house. 

“I’ll put the car in, and then come to you!” 
cried Aubrey. “We’ve a clear start of half an 
hour I Give him some brandy at once I ’ ’ 

The car moved off. Aubrey Derringham knew 
its position blindfold. He left it in the motor 
house, switched off the engine, and then rushed 
into his own habitation, fastening up the door 
behind him. His eyes fell on the prostrate figure 
lying on the rug before the blazing fire. It was 
limp and helpless, stained with blood and mire. 
A pitiable object enough without its hanging chains 
and hideous dress. 

“Quick, shutter the window!” ordered Aubrey. 
“Thank God it’s such a wild night! They’ll not 
be too keen in pursuit. ” 

While Chaffey obeyed he knelt by the uncon- 
scious boy, chafing his hands, trying to get some 
drops of brandy between the closed lips. 

Chaffey came back and tendered his help. 
* ‘ My ! Here’s a go ! He’s done it a second time, ’ ’ 
he said. “How did you find him, sir?” 

“He found me! I had heard the guns, and 
stopped the car. Then someone rushed out of the 
darkness and cried to me. I saw who it was. I 
helped him in, and the mist did the rest!” 

“But they could hear the car, sir?” 

“If they were near enough. But I don’t think 
they were. Not a soul came this way. I think 
there were two who escaped. See, the wrist 


200 


The Iron Stair 


chains are filed, so there must have been another 
fastened to him. But I asked nothing. The 
poor boy was exhausted. Ah — ^he’s coming round ! 
Hold up his head, Chaff ey. I’ll get another drop 
of brandy down.” 

The boy’s eyes opened, glanced round in sudden 
terror, and then, catching sight of the two com- 
passionate faces, brimmed over with sudden tears 
of helplessness. 

Don’t give me up, ” he whispered. “ I’d rather 
die than go back. I’d rather you shot me — now. ” 
“You shan’t go back,” said Aubrey. “Have 
no fear, you’re safe and with friends.” 

“Friends!” The wild eyes glanced from one to 

the other. “I don’t know you ” 

“But I know you. You’re Geoffrey Gale. 
Come, drink this and try to rouse yourself. Every- 
thing depends on the next few hours. They may 
come here, you mustn’t be found. I hardly think 
they’d search my house, but they might. I want 
to get you out of these clothes, and — oh, Chaff ey, 
bring a file. These things must come off at once. ” 
The boy sat up, white faced, haggard, with little 
semblance of youthful manhood about him. He 
held out first one wrist, then the other, and watched 
Chaffey’s deft manipulation. Then with hurried 
fingers they unfastened the prison garments, and 
put him into a loose warm dressing-gown. 

“Now you must come upstairs,” said Aubrey. 
“You’ve got to do a little play acting. Chaffey, 
burn these things in the kitchen stove. ” 


Robbed of its Prey 


201 


“Not just at once, sir, if I may advise. The 
stuff’ll take a lot of burning, and, besides it’ll smell 
like the devil, if I know anything. I’ll hide them 
safe enough, sir, but no burning yet awhile. ” 

“I daresay you’re right. Don’t forget those — 
chains.” 

“Don’t forget a movable hearthstone,” said 
Chaff ey with a grin. 

Aubrey took the boy’s arm and helped him up 
the stairs into a bedroom, in which stood an old- 
fashioned four-post bed. A bright fire burned in 
the grate, the room was furnished in a comfortable, 
old-fashioned style. 

“Now, one moment, ” said Aubrey. He poured 
out some water into a basin, and sponged the 
blood-stains and the wet earth. Then he opened 
a drawer of the bureau and took out a white wig. 
He fitted it on the boy’s shorn head, and trans- 
formed him into an old man to all appearance. 

“Splendid! Now, you’ll get into that bed, 
and keep your face turned to the wall, leaving your 
head visible. I’ll cover you up, and see to the rest. 
Mind, if there is a pursuit and they come here to 
search, you’re not to move or speak. I shall say 
you’re my father, and an invalid. They’ll never 
think of suspecting you. But I’ve an idea they 
won’t come, at least tonight. You said your 
companion went off towards Merivale? Probably 
they’ll think you’re together. Now — Oh, those 
shoes — I forgot ” 

He removed them, and then took off the worsted 


202 


The Iron Stair 


stockings, and replaced them by a pair of his own. 
He concealed the prison things under the wood in 
the square iron wood-box by the fireplace. 

“Now, into bed, and in ten minutes’ time you 
shall have a basin of soup. After that, you must 
try to sleep. Feel sure you’re safe. Renee has 
thought it all out.” 

“Renee!” The boy started. “Do you mean 
to say she’s helping? I’ve seen her on the moor. 
I wondered what on earth could have brought her 
there.” 

“Yes, she’s helping,” said Aubrey. “I am a 
friend of hers, and I live here. I’m quite above 
suspicion,” and he smiled. “Even if the warders 
pay me a visit it will only be a perfunctory one. 
But tomorrow I’ll explain everything. I want you 
to sleep tonight, and only think you’re safe. ” 

The boy held out his hand silently. As silently 
it was taken. Then he got into bed, and Aubrey 
arranged the clothes so that only a white head 
showed innocently above them. “Mind,” he 
repeated, “whatever happens you’re not to move 
or speak. ” 

“I’ll remember. May I just say one thing?” 

“What is it?” 

“I’m innocent. I swear it! I want you to 
believe that.” 

“I’ve always believed it, ” said Aubrey Derring- 
ham. 


An hour later master and man sat before the 


Robbed of its Prey 


203 


fire in the sitting-room listening to the havoc of the 
storm. Listening, even more keenly, for sound 
or signal of any pursuit of the escaped convict. 
None came. The little lonely house shut away 
into desolate solitude was scarcely known. Cer- 
tainly it was too far out of the radius of Princetown 
to excite suspicion. 

When Aubrey visited it he usually arrived at 
night, motoring over from Tavistock, or Exeter. 
As for Chaffey, the ostensible owner of Thrushel- 
combe, he was supposed to be an artist, or a 
naturalist, or some equally eccentric speciality 
to whom this wild district and its scenery or 
geological interests appealed. 

On this November night of mist and storm the 
two inhabitants of the queer stone house were as 
isolated as if on a desert island. Upstairs, the 
escaped prisoner slept the deep sleep of utter 
exhaustion. Below, beside the blazing fire, his 
rescuer related the adventure. '‘I don’t know 
what took me there today. ” 

'‘No, sir? Pure chance of course, sir?” 

“Chaffey, you’re a brute!” 

“Thank you, sir. Perhaps I am, but even they 
have instincts, sir, and gratitude, ” he added. 

“What does your instinct tell you, Chaffey?” 

“That a motor car is a blessed invention, sir, 
and a disguise, however long ’tis kept, may come 
in handy at last. ” 

“Yes,” said Aubrey. “Trust a woman’s wit 
to think of everything. The one difficulty in the 


204 


The Iron Stair 


matter would have been that shorn head of his. 
I’d never have thought of a wig. ” 

“You don’t think, sir, that perhaps the face and 
the wig are a bit out of keeping, so to say ? ” 

“I do think it. But he will not go out of this 
house until — well until all search is over. ” 

“And then, sir?” 

“Oh, Canada . . . South America, the Brazils, 
we don’t know yet. ” 

“Alone, sir?” 

“Do you suppose I do things by halves? He’ll 
go, wherever it is, as my valet. I think I’m above 
suspicion. ” 

“I hope you are, sir. It’s a big risk you’re 
running, and there’s a heavy penalty. I suppose 
— she — Mrs. Gale, I mean, didn’t think of that ? ’ ’ 
Aubrey moved restlessly. “What does it mat- 
ter! The thing’s done now. And mind you. 
Chaff ey, I’d do it again, not only for him, but 
for anyone who came to me with despair in his 
eyes, and desperation in his heart, as — he did!” 

“He looks pretty bad. I’d never have known 
him again. Shall you tell the young lady, sir?” 

“I must. But we’ll have to be very careful, 
Chaffey. It’s a mercy she has been here once or 
twice. ” 

“And the reverend gentleman, too. I’ve a 
sort of idea he suspected ’twas you she came to see. 
And as luck would have it, there was I, and Boxer 
there, having our tea as comfortable and innocent 
as babes in the wood. ” 


Robbed of its Prey 


205 


‘‘And he never recognized you?’’ 

Not he, sir. I played eccentric, as you told me. 
Besides, hinting I wasn’t exackly a parishoner o’ 
his, nor too fond o’ parsons, at any time. ” 

“Did you think — I mean was there anything 
about him to confirm your previous suspicions?” 

“Was there anything about him?” Chaffey’s 
voice was incarnate sarcasm. “He was just all 
one shake and tremor. Nigh on D. T., I’d 
say, if I was giving a purfessional opinion, sir. ” 

“She goes in terror of her life, she told me so — ” 
exclaimed Aubrey. “And I don’t know what to 
do. That’s the truth, Chaffey, I don’t. I daren’t 
go there. In his drunken fits he abuses me like a 
pickpocket. He has forbidden her to see me.” 

“Well, sir, if you’ll excuse my saying so, you’ve 
brought yourself into a confounded muddle. 
That’s the truth. It wasn’t bad enough before, 
with only the young lady to consider, but now 
you’ve gone and got incriminated with this ’ere 
escaped prisoner. You’ll have to pick yoiu: steps 
pretty wary, I can tell you, sir.” 

“I’m sure of that.” 

“Of course he’s, in a measure, safe, even if they 
brought a search party here. Not a soul knows 
of that cave, nor could find it. It seems to me 
that’s safer than the white wig, sir. Night time 
it would serve, but not by daylight, not with that 
face. Makes it look younger, sir, not older.” 

Aubrey paced to and fro the room, smoking a 
freshly lit pipe as comfort and consolation. He 


206 


The Iron Stair 


had indeed arrived at an impasse. It was barely 
a month since Renee had given him a first hint of 
communication with the great convict establish- 
ment on the moor. The hint was connected with 
a daughter of one of the warders, who lived just 
outside Princetown. Through the girl’s influence, 
which included a doting father as well as a young 
and sturdy lover, a message had been given and a 
message received. Of their nature Aubrey was 
not informed but he knew that any day a Dart- 
moor mist, or one of its autumn storms, would be 
a signal of attempted escape. Escape to a given 
point on the moor ; a point where a little unobtru- 
sive car might happen to be standing. And so it 
had all come about. For sake of a girl, in pity for 
her grief, in blind obedience to her entreaties, 
Aubrey Derringham, a possible peer of the 
realm, the fastidious, bored, dilettante man about 
town, whom his friends had known only as such, 
found himself in as tight a corner as ever man had 
found himself. 

He was answerable to the law for his present 
action. He had abetted and concealed the escape 
of a prisoner. He held that prisoner under his 
own roof. And more, in doing all this he had 
implicated the faithful servitor, whose own records 
were not of a nature to lighten the position of 
“accessory after the fact.” 

No wonder Aubrey Derringham paced his room 
in perturbed self -communing. No wonder his 
nerves gave false alarms, and lent a new terror to 


Robbed of its Prey 


207 


the night; the stormy clamour of the wind, the 
lashing fury of the wind. 

And worse was to come. On the morrow 
Geoffrey Gale was raving in the throes of fever 
and delirium. And over the wide wastes of Dart- 
moor mounted officials and zealous helpers were 
scouring every hamlet and village in search of an 
escaped convict. One Geoffrey Gale — ^known as 
No. 96. 


CHAPTER XVII 


“the bitter lot that waits for fool and 
knave” 

The little stone house was not molested. Day 
followed day, and Aubrey’s nerves quieted, and 
Chaffey nursed and physicked what he termed 
“a touch of prison fever” with the skill of ex- 
perience. Quinine, and a milk diet, and cold com- 
presses worked wonders with a physical system 
too enfeebled for even disease to make claims upon 
resistance. In three days the boy’s pulse and 
temperature were normal, and he lay passive and 
content in the old four-poster, asking nothing of 
life but the peace of the immediate moment. 
Meantime, his fellow fugitive had been captured 
on the Plymouth Road, and the authorities ceased 
to search for No. 96 very assiduously. The boy 
had possibly perished in that awful storm. Any- 
way, the local papers made light of the matter, 
and local gossip convinced itself that only death, 
or disaster, could have rewarded such a mad 
attempt. 

Meanwhile the bleak and cold of December days 
sped into weeks. It had been the 28th of Novem- 
208 


The Bitter Lot 


209 


her when Geoffrey Gale had been brought to 
Thrushelcombe. It was the 15th of December 
when he left his bed and sat by the fire, wrapped 
in Aubrey Derringham’s warm dressing-gown, in 
nervous expectance of a visitor. 

The sound of a car on that outlying clearing, 
called by courtesy a “road,” sent his pulses leaping 
to fever heat. Renee’s car. Clever, tender-hearted 
Renee, who had thought of and planned all this, 
and sent him a friend so powerful and so generous ! 
His brain was still weak and confused. He could 
not clearly recollect how it had happened. That 
sudden sweep of mist descending on the working 
party, blotting out faces and figures. The snap 
of a chain, the hoarse whisper of his comrade, 
and then flight ! Headlong impetuous flight, the 
irrational instinct of escape. Then the sudden 
appearance of a figure, the hum of a motor car, 
a frenzied entreaty, and a quick jerky passage over 
rough roads, a plunge into darkness, the checking 
of speed to cautious progress. Lights, humanity, 
safety ! 

This represented the fevered memory of his 
escape, but not its method, or complicity. Of 
these he was to hear today from Renee’s lips. 
Renee who was now his sister. He must remember 
that. But when the door opened and he saw her 
he remembered nothing except that she was 
Renee. As he met her brimming eyes his self- 
control vanished. 

She came swiftly forward. Her arms were 


14 


210 


The Iron Stair 


round him and his head on her shoulder. A storm 
of sobs shook her. His own eyes were wet. 

'‘Oh! my poor, poor Geoffrey!’’ That was her 
cry again and again ; every time she looked at the 
haggard face ; at the bruised hands, and the broken 
nails, at the shorn cropped head, and shaking 
figure. 

“ How cruel they have been to you ! . . . Oh, 
God! how changed you are!” 

The two young sorrowful creatures sobbed in 
sympathy ; childhood, boyhood, girlhood all merg- 
ing into memories that set their seal upon this 
harrowing moment. 

Renee first achieved self-control, possibly by aid 
of that instinctive “mothering” instinct which 
hates to see a man’s grief, and nerves itself to 
consolation at cost of future self-abandonment. 
She put him back into his chair, and stood beside 
him, her hand on his shoulder; her voice strung 
to a braver key. 

“We won’t think of it, it’s all over and done 
with. They’ve not come troubling to look for 
you, and you’re safe here ; perfectly safe, Aubrey 
says so.” 

“Aubrey?” The boy glanced up, shaking the 
tears off his lashes. “You call him that?” 

“He is a great friend of mine.” 

“And Mr. Chaffinch?” 

“Mr. — Oh, you mean Chaffey? Yes, he too. 
Isn’t he a dear? I don’t believe there’s a thing in 
the world he can’t do ! He’s been doctoring you, 


The Bitter Lot 


2II 


I hear. That’s another accomplishment. You 
— ^you’re really better, Geoffrey?” 

“ Oh yes, the fever’s quite gone. I’m only weak. ” 

She turned aside, and fetched a low wooden 
stool and placed it beside him. Then she sat down 
and held his hand in hers, and began to talk. 
There was so much to tell him. Much he wished 
to hear; much he dreaded to ask. Of her long 
anxious planning for this, of her care and diplo- 
macy — of Aubrey Derringham. 

“Darrell,” corrected Geoffrey. 

“Oh, yes, when he’s here! I forgot.” 

“Is there some mystery?” 

“No, at least, he, we — thought it best his real 
name shouldn’t come out. The house is supposed 
to be Chaff ey’s, and Aubrey — I mean Mr. Darrell — 
comes occasionally as a visitor.” 

“ But I can’t understand why he should have run 
such a risk as this for someone he doesn’t know? ” 

“He was in court. He heard your trial. He 
never believed you guilty. ” 

“He’s told me that. I — I felt I couldn’t stay 
here if he believed it.” 

“No one with two grains of sense ever did!” 
exclaimed Renee, with a passionate condemnation 
peculiarly her own. “Never mind, we’re not 
going to talk of that, at all. But is there really — 
such a risk, Geoffrey?” 

“He’d have to take his chance of imprisonment. 
I think it’s two years.” 

She sprang up. “ Oh, Geoffrey — and I made him 


212 


The Iron Stair 


do it! I thought it out, and then suggested about 
the car, and he’s stayed on here, all these weeks, 
waiting for a chancel Oh! but I never knew — I 
never thought that he — he ” 

She tiurned frightened eyes to the boy’s face. 
It was pale and concerned like her own. 

'‘You — made him do it? I — can’t understand. 
And George, I thought he ” 

“George! He doesn’t care. I haven’t even 
told him you’ve escaped, and the papers never 
gave your name, only ” 

“I know — my number.” 

The girl shivered suddenly. The voice from 
which all music of joy and youth had gone con- 
veyed more than the ill-omened words of pent-up 
shame and suffering. 

“George doesn’t care!** he went on. “You 
don’t mean that he believes I deserved this?” 

She leant her head against his knee, and made no 
reply. The boy put one hand on that bright head, 
the other clutched the arm of his chair. 

“I am sorry — for you. I often thought he’d 
turned against me. . . . You’ve not told him 
anything?” 

“No.” 

“But he must have known I had been 
transferred here?** 

“He may. He never said. We never spoke of 
you.” 

“One thing I want to know,” he said sternly, 
“Why did you marry so soon — after ?” 


The Bitter Lot 


213 


“Father wished it. It was all arranged.” 

“But you — you could have held out, had you 
wished?” 

‘T . . . I suppose so. I never thought of it 
then. Never till it was too late. ” 

“You’re not — happy, Renee?” 

“ Happy ! ” She lifted her head, and he saw the 
change in her; read the hidden secret of her life. 

“I warned you, don’t you remember?” 

She looked away, into the depths of the fire, 
remembering only too well ; remembering so many 
other things that made up a sum of misery to 
which every day added another figure. 

‘ ‘ My saintly brother ! How well he’s worked for 
his object. I suppose your father still looks upon 
him as the ‘white boy’ of the family?” 

“I have never seen father since I . . . since I 
came here.” 

‘ ‘ I couldn’t believe you really lived here ! In this 
God-forsaken place!” 

“Yes, Geoffrey, I do. The parish is only a few 
miles off. It’s a dreary moorland village, the 
church is crumbling into decay. The rector keeps 
it company, a senile old idiot, and George — ” She 
paused. Their eyes met. “Oh — I’m ashamed to 
see him put on the vestments of a priest, or take a 
service! It’s sheer mockery! But very few 
people come to the church, they all go to chapel. 
It’s wise of them, whether they know it, or 
not.” 

“I was always afraid of George — lapsing,” 


214 


The Iron Stair 


muttered the boy. “I knew he had a tendency 
that way. Oh, Renee, my dear! what have you 
done for yourself?’^ 

“Never mind me! What does it signify? It’s 
of you I’m thinking, Geoffrey. Of how we’re to 
get you away, to some place of safety. It’s sur- 
prising no one has been here. They came to Shaps- 
down and Two Bridges, and all the scattered farms 
and cottages were searched. . . . Oh, Geoff, 

even now — they might ” 

“ Chaff ey, as you call him, knows of a secret 
hiding place where I could never be found.” 

“But he can’t be always on the watch, to guard 

against surprises? And if ” 

“Yes, they’d make it harder than ever. I got 
badly punished for that first time, but it would be 
nothing to what this would mean.” 

The girl clasped his hand in silent agony. She 
had thought and planned and worked for this 
escape so long, achieved it so skilfully, only to 
learn that the penalty of it would be like a mill- 
stone round his neck and hers and that other 
which she had forced into the same danger. 

“Oh! but they must never find you!” she cried 
passionately. “Already, the stir and fuss is dying 
out. They think you couldn’t have breasted such 
a storm — that bog, or river, or mine shaft has got 
you. Aubrey seems quite convinced the search is 
over. He has a plan. ... I don’t know what 
it is, yet, but we can safely trust him. He is so 
clever, and oh — so kind!” 


The Bitter Lot 


215 


“How did you get to know him?” asked Geof- 
frey jealously. 

“At Weymouth. He was staying there. He 
took Madame Gascoigne and myself for a motor 
tour, and then he sent me a darling little Renault 
for a wedding present. You saw me in it?” 

“Yes, but I didn’t know it was your own. I 
thought you might have hired it. ” 

“No, it’s my very own.” 

“What did George say to that?” 

“He tried to prevent my having it. But I 
wouldn’t give in. It’s just the one little bit of 
pleasure I have, that car. Wasn’t it a blessing 
that on that night it was safe in the garage. They 
came to the hotel and questioned the stable people, 
because I had been seen driving it to Princetown 
so often.” 

“Hadn’t Mr. , your friend here, been seen 

in his?” 

“He’s not so well known. And he never went 
to Princetown — by daylight.” 

“Still, if it got known that he was out with his 
car — that day?” 

“They’d have been here before this. It’s over 
two weeks. He isn’t at all afraid. He’s even 
talked to some of the warders, and suggested 
places to search.” 

“And they don’t think it odd that a gentleman 
like Mr. Darrell should bury himself in this queer 
out-of-the-way spot?” 

“They’ve not said so. He’s supposed to be 


2I6 


The Iron Stair 


writing a book on Dartmoor, that’s answer 
enough.” 

He’s saved my life, and my reason, ” said Geof- 
frey hoarsely. “Another six months and I should 
have gone mad.” 

His face changed suddenly. It seemed to 
shrivel, and grow old and wilted as a leaf the 
frost has touched. 

“Some of them do, you know, ” he went on pres- 
ently. “But no one ever hears of it. If you’ve 
done evil and are punished it’s hard enough, but 
when you know you’re innocent and have to suffer 
the indignities, the shames, the brutal indifference, 
the awful hardships — God! That’s what makes 
criminals of men who once loathed crime, as — I 
loathed it.” 

“Geoffrey — Oh, hush, dear, hush!” 

The blazing eyes, the fever spot on each white 
cheek terrified her. She rose to her feet. “ I must 
go. I daren’t stay longer. But I’ll come again, 
soon, I promise. Meantime, you’ll do all — he — 
tells you, won’t you, Geoffrey?” 

“Yes, that I will. I don’t know why he should 
be so good to me, why he has put himself into such 
a position for me. But it isn’t likely I’ll forget it! 
I was half dead, a frozen numbed corpse that he 
brought back to life. That life is his — to deal with 
as he chooses. ” 

The girl’s eyes shone like stars; her lips quiv- 
ered. She held out her hands and the boy took 
them. 


The Bitter Lot 


217 


“Renee, the thought comes to me that some 
day we’ll regret this. That I ought to have had 
patience, waited till the end. ” 

“Oh, no! No!'' she cried. “You couldn’t, 
you’d have died ! I never saw anyone so changed. 
... I thought when I first caught sight of you, 
in that chained gang — Oh, my dear, my heart 
seemed to break. ... I couldn’t bear it. 
Night and day I saw you, with those chains, and 
that look of despair in your eyes. If my life could 
have bought your freedom I’d have given it if only 
to escape the torture of thought, for, Geoffrey — 
I know who did it. ’’ 

“So do I, ” said the boy. “No wonder he tries 
to drown memory. No wonder he didn’t come to 
see me — suffer — in his place.’’ 

Her eyes fell on the thin scarred hands that 
clasped her own. A silence, sadder than words, 
marked a moment’s tortured hesitation. Then 
their hands unclasped. The girl drew her veil 
about her, and turned to the door. His eyes 
followed her. 

“You’ll come again?’’ he whispered hoarsely. 

“Yes, as soon as I can. ... Be brave, dear, 
it will all come right.’’ 

The door closed. The shivering figure sank 
back into the chair, and hid his face between his 
hands. 

“All come right? . . . How can anything 
ever be right again . . . for I’ve lost — her, damn 
him!’’ 


2I8 


The Iron Stair 


Aubrey Derringham came upstairs after Renee’s 
departure. He affected a hopefulness he was far 
from feeling. Chaff ey brought up tea and he had 
it in the invalid’s room, and then sat on smoking 
and talking in the firelight, till it was too dark to 
see each other’s faces. 

‘Tt really does seem as if the pursuit had died 
out,” he said suddenly. “I suppose you didn’t 
confide anything to that other man, did you?” 

“No, I trusted no one. Besides, I had only the 
very vaguest hint given me. ” 

“The young warder? — ^yes, I know. ” 

“It wasn’t likely I’d get him into trouble, the 
only one who spoke decently to me, or seemed to 
have a spark of feeling. ” 

' ‘ They have to be hard, ’ ’ said Chaff ey. ‘ ‘ Think 
of the ruffians they deal with, and the risks. A 
couple of hundred officials against a thousand 
desperate men, all on the look-out for a chance to 
evade a rule, or escape from hell’s bondage. ” 
Geoffrey Gale glanced with surprise at the 
excited face. “They’re not so bad as they used 
to be, ’ ’ he said. “You seem to know ? ’ ’ 

“I’ve heard a lot, and I can put two and two 
together. ” 

“The Governor was very kind,” said the boy, 
“but one warder was a brute. He disliked me. 
Somehow, I don’t feel easy in my mind about him. 
He’d want proof of death, or escape, before he’d 
believe in either. ” 

‘ ‘ He was at the hotel, one day. I spoke to him,” 


The Bitter Lot 


219 


said Aubrey. “A hard brutal type, as you say. 
I put in an uncomfortable ten minutes when he 
questioned my fancy for motoring over Dartmoor 
at this season of the year. I told him the chance of 
a punctured tyre was preferable to the vagaries of 
wayside stations, or local time-tables.” 

“He wouldn’t get much change out of you, sir, ” 

said Chaff ey. “All the same ” 

He paused abruptly. * ‘ Wheels ! ” he exclaimed. 

“My God, sir, I do believe ” 

“Hush!” said Aubrey. “Don’t lose your head 
now! I’ll see them, while you get him away. ” 
Geoffrey sprang up from his chair. “Oh! for 
God’s sake, hide me! Don’t let them get me 
again!” 

‘ ‘ Pull yourself together ! Do what Chaff ey 
tells you! They shan’t get you, don’t be afraid!” 

Even as he spoke his eyes took in the aspect of 
the room. Noted that the bed was made, that 
nothing pointed to a third person’s occupancy. 
He put the tea-table aside, as Chaffey seized the 
boy’s hand, and pressed a panel in the wall covered 
by a small bookcase. It gave, showing only a well 
of darkness that meant a staircase. 

Aubrey closed it on them, as a loud knock 
sounded at the door. Then he descended in his 
usual leisurely fashion, and faced two plain-clothes 
officials, each carrying a lantern. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


'‘he does not win who plays with sin'’ 

There was no light in the entrance. One of the 
men lifted his lantern and it showed the impassive 
face of the owner of Thnishelcombe tuned to 
adequate surprise. 

“May I ask?” 

“We want to have a look round, sir. We’ve 
heard a rumour that an escaped prisoner was 
seen hereabouts. ” 

“Indeed? I assure you no one has been here — 
to my knowledge. However, you’ve got your 
lanterns, you’re welcome to search. There’s the 
motor house, and the fowl house, and the tool 
house. Can you find your way ? ” 

“Any objection to seeing inside as well as 
outside, sir?” 

It was the harsh gruff voice of the warder whom 
Aubrey had once seen at the hotel. 

“Objection? — decidedly. I can see no reason 
for any suspicion that needs other defence than 
my word. I lodge quietly here with Mr. Chaffinch, 
the geologist. Do you suppose we should be likely 
to harbour escaped convicts?” 

220 


Who Plays with Sin 


221 


“WeVe been ordered to search every house in 
the district. I’ve a warrant, sir, if you want to 
see it?” 

Oh, no. If it’s your duty — why you must do it. 
But I tell you plainly it’s time and labour lost. 
Only Mr. Chaffinch and I live here.” 

He stood back, and the men entered. Aubrey 
sought excuse for further parleying. 

' ‘ Excuse the darkness. We hadn’t lit the lamps. 
Our hour for a quiet smoke and a chat in the fire- 
light. If you’ll wait a moment. I’ll get matches. 
That’s the door of the sitting-room — on the right.” 

He went back to the kitchen, leaving the men to 
examine the other room, hoping that by the time 
they got upstairs, Chaff ey would be back and sit- 
ting in the old easy chair in the character of 
inoffensive scientist, which had accounted for 
eccentricities. 

Whistling carelessly, he came back along the 
passage, and entered the living room. “Well?” 
he questioned smiling, and held the lamp above his 
head. 

“Nothing — here, of course,” said the surly 
warder, whose eyes had strayed in dull surprise 
over the shelves of heavy literature, a writing- 
table with piles of MSS. covered with writing and 
hieroglyphics, and four walls guiltless of anything 
excepting fitted comer cupboards, and the ordinary 
prosaic furniture of civilized humanity. 

Aubrey Derringham set the lamp down on the 
table. “Can I offer you anything?” he asked. 


222 


The Iron Stair 


“It’s a cold night, and you’ve had a long drive, if 
you’ve come from Princetown?” 

The surly warder declined hospitality ; the other 
looked regretful. 

‘T suppose you’d like to see the kitchen next?” 
smiled Aubrey. “I flatter myself that its con- 
veniences would be hard to beat. My friend 
and I didn’t wish to be bothered with servants, 
so we’ve everything to help and nothing to 
hinder. ” 

He persisted in showing ingenious contrivances; 
opening cupboards, explaining how wood cellar 
and scullery and wash-house had been put under 
cover, so that weather should not be actively 
inconvenient. 

The gruff warder looked at everything, examined 
the cupboards, and the woodstack, pounced at 
last upon a queer little twisting staircase veiled 
by an innocent-looking door, and demanded where 
it led. 

“To the bedrooms. There are only two. 
W ould you like to go up ? Do. ’ ’ The man flashed 
his light up the little corkscrew stairs. A peevish 
voice from above demanded who was there? 

“My friend,” explained Aubrey. “He’s got a 
bad cold. He’s in his bedroom.” 

The man went silently up the staircase and came 
out on a narrow landing-place. An open door faced 
him, and huddled by the Are sat the figure of the 
other occupant of the house. 

“Two — gentlemen — from Dartmoor, ” an- 


Who Plays with Sin 


223 


nounced Aubrey. “Anxious to see that there’s 
no suspicious person in hiding hereabouts. ” 

He threw open the door of the second room. 
Comfortable enough, innocent of any sign that 
could be construed into suspicion. 

The warder looked round. ‘ ‘ Two beds — here, ’ ’ 
he said sharply. “I thought there was only you 
and the scientific gent livin’ here? What d’ye 
want three beds for?” 

“My good friend,” said Aubrey, “I might ask 
you what business that is of yours. An English- 
man’s home is sufficiently his castle to permit of 
his furnishing it as he pleases. However, the ex- 
planation is too simple for any mystery. There 
are three beds in this house because I happen to 
possess three bedsteads. I and my friend furnished 
it with odds and ends of joint possessions. Also, it 
might not be quite unreasonable to suppose we 
have an occasional visitor. ” 

The man turned on his heel. Aubrey breathed 
a sigh of relief. If the fool had taken it into 
his head to examine the beds he would have 
seen that both showed signs of present occupa- 
tion, and even a scientist could not sleep in 
two beds at the same time. However, he 
closed the door explaining that draughts were 
bad for his friend’s cold — a remark that pro- 
duced a violent fit of coughing and sneezing from 
the armchair. 

The warder flashed his lantern over the firelit 
room, muttered a surly apology for intrusion, and 


224 


The Iron Stair 


then took his leave. Aubrey accompanied him 
to the door. 

“You may as well examine the outhouses,” he 
said. 

“You’ve got a motor car, haven’t you?” 
enquired the man. 

‘ ‘ Scarcely a motor car. A little two-seater, that 
I drive myself. It’s useful for getting about. ” 

“You didn’t happen to be out in it the afternoon 
of the twenty-eighth of November by any chance ? ” 

“Twenty-eighth of November,” said Aubrey. 
“What day of the week? I don’t pay much atten- 
tion to dates. One day is very much like another 
down here. ” 

The man mentioned the day. Aubrey reflected. 

“I might have been. Yes — I believe I was. 
But I thought a storm was threatening, and ran 
home as quickly as I could. I didn’t escape. It 
caught me at Post Bridge. I was wet through. ” 

“I’ve got the number of a car seen near where 
our men got off,” said the warder. “Doesn’t 
happen to be yours, I suppose?” 

“You’d better see for yourself,” said Aubrey. 
“The key’s in the door of the motor house. Now, 
I’ll wish you good evening. If you do find that 
runaway, I wish you’d let me know. This is 
rather a lonely place, and my friend and I aren’t 
provided with firearms against desperadoes. ” 

He closed the door. That had been a very bad 
half -moment. The number of his motor car ? How 
was it he had not thought of that ? 


Who Plays with Sin 


225 


“A cool chap, ain’t he?” remarked the second 
warder to his surly companion, as they walked 
away. 

“Cool? I believe you. I only tried that on 
about the number of his car. I haven’t got it. 
Never had. But I’ll take it — now.” 

Upstairs in the firelit bedroom the “cool chap” 
listened with beating pulses to the sounds with- 
out. Not until the sound of a horse’s feet and 
rattle of wheels proclaimed departure did he 
speak. 

Then he said hoarsely: “By Jove, Chaffey, I 
was in a blue funk, and no mistake ! . . . Well, 
there’s one good thing they won’t pay us another 
visit. ” 

“Shall I — fetch him now?” asked Chaff ey. 

“No, wait a few minutes. I don’t trust that 
warder. He may make some excuse to come 
back. That’s been done before.” 

“On the stage, sir. ” 

“Well, the stage teaches many useful lessons. 
I shall go down now, put up the shutters, lock the 
motor house, and have a look round. ” 

“Can’t I, sir?” 

“You forget you’re an invalid. I’m going to 
leave this light here, and this window as it is. We 
are *on view’ from that dog-cart. Let us play the 
game, Chaffey. ” 

“Lord, sir! to think that you . . . you to 
whom everything was a trouble, not to say a 

IS 


226 


The Iron Stair 


bore, to think that you should have risen to 
emergencies such as these, sir! It’s wonderful, 
that it is!” 

“Life’s wonderful. Chaff ey, when we look at it 
apart from our own small interests. Stop where 
you are! I’m sure you make an excellent picture 
viewed from the road beyond.” 

He laughed softly, and left the room; cool 
enough to all outward appearance. Inwardly 
distraught and perplexed. 

With bloodhounds on the scent how was he to 
keep this boy in hiding, or how was he ever to get 
him away? 

White and shaking and terror-struck, Geoffrey 
Gale crept from out of his hiding-place. It was 
nothing but an underground cave that ran for 
some distance alongside the foundations of the 
queer house. A place to which Chaffey’s ingenuity 
had discovered the way by means of that very 
corkscrew staircase that looked so innocent. 

The shock coming upon recent illness, and the 
excitement of Renee’s visit, threatened a return of 
the fever. Aubrey sent the boy back to bed, and 
Chaffey gave him a sleeping draught of chlorodyne 
which, if unusual, had at least the effect of soothing 
his nerves. 

Meanwhile the subject of future escape was 
seriously discussed by master and man. 

“You could see they were suspicious,” said 
Aubrey. “That means we shall be watched. It 


Who Plays with Sin 


227 


will be no easy matter to get three people away, 
when only two are supposed to live here?” 

“No, sir, it won’t. But what’s the use worry- 
ing? He’s safe enough now. They’ll not come 
nigh us again. And you’ll hit upon something, 
sir, I bet. Never saw the like o’ you for circum- 
mounting obstacles, sir. ” 

Aubrey Derringham smiled at the remark, but 
the smile was a bitter one. Well enough he knew 
that obstacles were not always to be circummounted 
not even by skill, or thought, or all one’s_^heart’s 
desire. 

It was Christmas Eve. 

A steely sky shone over a waste of snow that 
carpeted the moor, and lay on the crests of the Tors, 
and gave a strange mysterious aspect to that ever 
mysterious region of peaks and crests and ravines. 
The cold was intense. Not for many a year had 
such bitter weather signalized the season. The 
cattle were safely herded ; peat and wood had been 
brought in and stacked for fuel in every cot or 
farmhouse. Lights twinkled from out of curtained 
windows. Here and there a village proclaimed 
itself as a starry centre against surroimding white- 
ness. The road lost itself in hollows and breasted 
heights, with a vain endeavour to baffle snowdrifts. 
Desolation gave the keynote to the scene. No 
vehicle or pedestrian would willingly have braved 
the intense cold, or the baffling tracks. 

In the queer little hamlet of Shapsdown the 


228 


The Iron Stair 


villagers held high wassail at the inn, where lights 
shone valiantly, and branches of holly gave a 
festive touch to the barroom. It was simply an 
extension of the kitchen, and consisted mainly of 
a long wooden table, and some benches. The 
weather was the general topic of conversation 
coupled with sundry animadversions on the new 
^‘passon,” who had not been, to all appearance, 
very generous in the matter of Christmas doles. 

The “little lady” had gone to and fro with gifts 
of tea and sugar, and warm garments for the child- 
ren, but the old vicar and his young assistant had 
bestowed nothing more valuable than good advice, 
coupled with hints of overdue rent, or non-attend- 
ance at the parish church. 

By way of revenge no assistance had been given 
in the way of decoration. Not a single offer of holly 
or ivy had been received. The old mouldy church 
was left severely alone to its mouldiness and gloom, 
and judging from expressed opinions the ceremony 
of a Christmas-Day service would be purely per- 
functory. It seemed the height of folly to be going 
to church on a week-day, celebrating two Sundays 
between the important duties of five working days. 

“He ha’ given I a fair order,” observed the inn- 
keeper. “Jar o’ whiskey went up along, not to tell 
o’ wine cases sent from Tavistock by rail. Seems 
as ef they be goin’ to have a fair frisk up to 
th’ rectory.” 

“I thought you said ’twas the yoimg passon as 
liked his drop?” 


Who Plays with Sin 


229 


“So *tes. But th’ ould ’un cud help empty a 
glass wi’ anyone, so ’im cud. ” 

“But who did they wine cases go to?” persisted 
the intelligent blacksmith, who had closed his forge 
by way of celebrating the season. “Th’ old man, 
or th’ young?” 

“Mister Gale av course. Didn’t I zay so?” 

“Yew only said as ’ow they’d been sent by rail. 
Yew don’t suppose ’twere for us? Maybe we 
oughtern’t to ha’ neglected th’ church. Th’ old 
man did use to giv’ us a shilling or two cum Christ- 
mas time. Th’ young ’un ” 

“Well, this be ’is fust Christmas,” interrupted 
another voice. 

“Don’t let’s judge ’im too hard. Wait till 
to-morrow’s out. It’s not too late.” 

“Seed him goin’ over by the cleave afore sun- 
down, ” observed another parishioner. “ ’E looked 
queer. White an’ mazed-like, an’ all see-saw in 
th’ manner o’ takin’ th’ road. ’E was talkin’ 
to hisself too.” 

“Sayin’ off his sermon, per’aps?” 

“Didn’t soimd much like a sermon. ’Ere, 
landlord, glasses round, us be goin’ to sing 
one o’ th’ ould songs. Uncle Biddlelake there, 
he’m brought ’is concertina. ’Twill liven us up a 
bit.” 

Song followed song, and glasses were filled and 
emptied. Outside the wind blew over a white 
world, and a pale moon shone over heaped snow- 
drifts, and the twisting track of the road. It was 


230 


The Iron Stair 


late, almost midnight, when a little car came slowly 
over that track, its lights flashing right and left 
where the heaped snow had been cleared by the 
passage of carts, or foot passengers. It ran on 
through the village street, and across the common, 
and drew up before a house in which a single light 
shone through a crimson blind. 

The blind was raised as the faint hoot of warning 
sounded. A moment later the door opened, show- 
ing a slender figure outlined against the darkness 
of the entrance hall. The driver of the car helped 
his companion to alight. A huddled figure muffled 
in coat and cap, half supported by the arm on 
which he leant. 

The girl in the doorway gave a sudden cry of 
astonishment. “Aubrey — what’s happened?” 

“ r ve brought — ^your husband — home. Is there 
any one else up beside yourself?” 

“No.” The white face looked unutterably 
weary. She stepped back, listening to the lagging 
step, as if it were no new thing. 

“The usual state, I suppose? But where did 
you find him?” 

“Near the Clapper Bridge. Steady now, you’re 
all right. You’re safe — home. Try and get that 
into your head. Home. ” 

Startled by the tone of his voice, which conveyed 
a deeper meaning than the mere words, Renee 
turned and looked at the speaker, and then at the 
figure sinking so wearily into the chair by the fire. 
Aubrey Derringham had piloted him there, and 


Who Plays with Sin 


231 


now stood looking from his face to that piteous 
ashamed one of the young wife. 

“You’re sure — ^you’re alone? There’s no one 
else?” he said in a hoarse whisper. 

‘ ‘ Quite sure. This is no new experience for me. ’ ’ 

“My poor child!” 

Involuntarily he put out his hands and took hers 
into their warm protecting clasp. “My brave 
little Renee! Now sit down, there. I’ve got to 
tell you something that will need all your courage. ” 
He glanced round. “Have you any wine, at 
hand?” 

“Not more — for him?” she gasped protestingly. 

“No, for yourself. Ah — I see!” 

He went to the door and closed it. Then opened 
the sideboard, and took out a decanter. Glasses 
stood on the shelf. He brought one over, and filled 
it, and gave it to her. 

“ Don’t be afraid. You’ll need all your strength. 
Now — look, ” 

She followed the gesture of his hand. Saw the 
figure lift its head, take off the tweed cap. Saw the 
close curling hair, the clear-cut face, the round 
clerical collar. Saw in a sudden flash of terror they 
were not George Gale’s features but Geoffrey’s. 

Geoffrey’s face, Geoffrey’s eyes, looking at her 
from the dress and living presentment of his 
brother. 


CHAPTER XIX 


''more lives than one*' 

Speechless and bewildered the girl looked from 
one to the other. Her trembling lips could frame 
no words in that first shock of surprise. 

Aubrey went to the door, looked out, then shut 
it firmly, and came back. “Now listen," he said. 
“Whatever you may thinks or feel, or suspect, this 
is George Gale — ^your husband." 

“ No, no ! " she cried wildly. “That's not true. " 

“For you — no. For the world — ^yes. Renee, 
fate has played a strange trick upon us. Nothing 
so strange, so impossible, could ever have been 
brought about except by the accident that has 
brought it. Even I, even Chaffey wouldn’t 
have dared do what — such an accident has done, 
and we've been pretty daring as you know. . . . 

He paused, glancing from her white face to that 
other, scarcely less white or strained in its 
attention. 

“Two hours ago," he went on hurriedly, ''Chaf- 
fey came in from an errand. On his way back he 
stumbled across a figure lying in the roadway. 
There was light enough to see the face, light enough 
to recognize George Gale — ^your husband. " 

232 


More Lives than One 


233 


‘‘George — then he ” 

A sense of mystery, of dread, was weighing on 
her heart. She could not voice what this discovery 
meant, or involved. 

“He was — dead,’' said Aubrey gravely. 

“Dead ” 

“He may have struck his head against some 
rough stones that the snow had hidden, or suc- 
cumbed to the cold. We don’t know. Only 
Chaffey put him gently to one side, and rushed to 
me to tell me of the discovery, and of what it 
meant. ” 

The white lips shook, but no words escaped. 
Her heart told her what it had meant. What wild 
project had been framed and carried through in 
a moment’s mad impulse. The changed identity 
safeguarded by an extraordinary resemblance ; 
the transference of the living for the dead, the dead 
for the living. 

She rose, and stood leaning against the table. 
“I think — I know,” she stammered. “George is 
dead. Geoffrey is to take his place, and yet — 
how?” 

“Do you realize what it means, Renee? Safety 
for life. For life. No need for flight, for subter- 
fuge. No possibility of suspicion. Chaffey did 
his work thoroughly. The prison clothes had never 
been destroyed.” 

She made a hurried gesture. She saw in a flash 
the whole scheme, the extraordinary deception to 
which they were all committed, but in her heart 


234 


The Iron Stair 


she only cried: “It is just. It is just!” Just — 
that the real sinner should suffer in some measure 
for his sin. Just — that the martyred life should 
know itself rehabilitated, set in safety and honour 
once again. 

In honour? Could it be that? Could it ever be 
that ? It was Geoffrey’s turn to speak now. He 
rose and steadied himself against the table, looking 
eagerly at the girl’s lowered eyes. 

“ Do me justice, Renee, ” he said. “ Believe me 
I was not told of this, not of the danger or the 
magnitude of the scheme till we were on our way 
here I Even now I won’t consent to it unless you — 
wish it.” 

“I must wish it!” she cried passionately. “It 
is the only way out of our difficulty. Not a soul 
will know. You — almost deceived me. In that 
dress you can pass for George — anywhere. I 
doubt if even father would recognize you. ” 

“But, Renee, have you thought what it means 
to — you?” 

The colour mounted slowly to the haggard young 
face. No, she had not thought of that. Had not 
remembered that change of identity meant also 
change of relationship. That if Geoffrey Gale lived 
here as George Gale, he must live here as her 
husband. 

White as death she turned to Aubrey Derring- 
ham. ‘ ‘ How — can we ? ” 

“ It rests between you both, ” he said. 

“ Between us. ” Her eyes turned to Geoffrey’s. 


More Lives than One 


235 


For a moment their sad entreaty held her power- 
less. She was conscious of the ticking of the clock, 
of the fall of the ashes in the grate, of the dull heavy 
throbs of her heart. 

George was dead — she was free. George lived 
again — she was bound to a yet heavier bondage. 
Over and over she said this to herself. Life seemed 
a stupid aimless thing in which human beings were 
caught in traps of steel, and told to move and live 
as if the trap did not exist. She had felt the trap 
close on her once; open, as if for freedom, then it 
snapped closer than ever, leaving her maimed, and 
tortured, and despairing. 

Had she ever been a child? Ever romped with 
and teased these two boys, who had become her 
tyrants? Ever run races with them in cowslip 
meadows, and laughed for joy of a spring morning? 

She was bound to the living and the dead. The 
joy of life was gone. 

And how old she seemed . . . how old! 

“Sit down, Geoffrey,” she said suddenly. 
“I’ve thought it out. I’ll do it.” 

She turned to Aubrey Derringham. “It’s 
being so unprepared that — upset me,” she stam- 
mered. “What’s the use of pretending I’m sorry 
for — him. I hated him, and he knew it. My life 
here has been intolerable. Today even, in church, 
he was abusing me, because I wanted to make it a 
little like Christmas. And then he sat there, 
drinking himself into semi-stupor, until he went 


236 


The Iron Stair 


out — ” She shuddered. “Went out to his death. 
But that ends everything. It’s of you I must 
think, Geoffrey — you .... How can you take 
his place — publicly?” 

“ I never thought of that — ” faltered the boy. 

No more had Aubrey thought of it. He did now 
and realized that the pass between Scylla and 
Charybdis was no fable. “You told me no one 
ever came to the church? That the service was a 
mere farce conducted for a deaf sexton and empty 
benches?” 

“So it is. But sometimes a straggler from 
the parish drops in, and there are burials — and 
christenings,” she added, flushing suddenly. 

“We must only hope there won’t be any while 
Geoffrey’s here,” said Derringham. “He can 
resign the curacy, you know. His health would 
be excuse enough, and that the place didn’t agree 
with him, or you. That difficulty is not insur- 
mountable. What we have to do is to throw dust 
in the eyes of the Princetown officials, so as to pre- 
clude all future suspicions. This seemed to me 
the one and only way. Of course Geoffrey must 
not leave too suddenly. But in a few months the 
story will be forgotten, and he won’t be the first 
man in Holy Orders who resigns his office. What 
I wish to impress upon you both is that the future 
is now clear. That no one will ever be able to 
throw this convict episode in Geoffrey’s face. It’s 
over, and will be buried with the man they must 
find soon or late in that snow drift. The fact of 


More Lives than One 


237 


his hair having grown will be attributed to the 
length of time since the escape. If there’s a post 
mortem it will be held in the prison. Nothing can 
be found out. No one will know that the Reverend 
George Gale of Shapsdown was the brother of 
No. 96. No one need ever know — now.” 

Renee looked at No. 96. At the despairing eyes, 
the unsteady hands and lips. The whole story of 
physical prostration and disordered nerves spoke 
in every line of the altered face, and the nerveless 
figure. Would he ever have strength to carry this 
through? To masquerade his whole life long as 
the brother who had wronged him, and now was 
paying the price of such wrong? 

“It is getting late,” said Aubrey suddenly. 
“And I have to make my way back over that awful 
road. You must arrange all this between you. 
Only, for God’s sake, remember that you’re not 
Geoffrey; that Renee mustn’t call you Geoffrey, 
ever again.” 

“I’ll remember, ” said the girl. She threw back 
her head, and looked from one to the other. “ It’s 
been all my doing. I must fight it out. I want 
you to go . . . right away — noWy Mr. Derring- 
ham. I never thought of the harm I was doing 
you ; of the risks you ran ! But — I’m not a foolish 
girl any longer. I seem to have awakened to the 
purpose of life. ... I’ll think it. all out — ^for 
myself, and for — George.” 

Aubrey started. That word seemed to set the 
seal of conclusion on the whole matter. 


238 


The Iron Stair 


This was George Gale, and she, Renee, was his 
wife — to the world, and he was to go away, right 
away, as she had said, and leave her to fight out 
the battle for herself, and the man he had saved. 

“I . . .1 can’t go — away, till I see how it 
works,” he said hurriedly. “There will be a 
hundred things to guard against, and arrange. 
George’s habits, his handwriting, his friends. How 
is Geoffrey to know all about these?” 

“It sounds more difficult than we thought, at 
first,” said the boy. “For one thing I can’t play 
drunken wastrel in the village, even if I’ve the 
courage to face an empty church from the altar. ” 
“No, I don’t wish you to do that,” said Aubrey. 
“You must take your chance of a sudden reforma- 
tion. Renee will be seen with you more frequently. 
The gossips here can draw their own conclusions. ” 
“And what about the servants?” 

“We’ve only one, ” said Renee, “ and a silly half- 
witted boy for the garden. Ann Whyddon is a 
stupid girl, and she was always frightened of 
George. You needn’t take any notice of her.” 

“ I must remember her name. ” 

“It’s an easy one,” said Aubrey, turning up his 
coat collar, as he moved to the door. “Well, you 
get off to bed now, and don’t worry over problems 
that may solve themselves. I’ll come round to- 
morrow, and settle up the remaining details. No, 
Renee, don’t come out in the cold. This isn’t 
good-bye — ^yet. ” 

She looked after him as he went into the hall. 


More Lives than One 


239 


her face white and strained and eager. “If it 
was,” she said in her heart, “it might make this 
easier for me. ” 

Then she turned to the waiting figure. “I’ll 
show you your room. The house is very small. 
You won’t lose your way.” 

“What about the morning?” he said, as he lit 
the candle she offered him. 

“Breakfast is at nine o’clock. Ann will call 
you.” 

They looked at each other. She was calm 
enough. It was Geoffrey who was conscious of 
deeper meanings; tragic possibilities; things far 
removed from the brother and sister days in the 
Manchester home. Well, he had made his bargain 
with Fate. He must pay for it sooner or later. 

Renee turned out the light in the sitting-room, 
and led the way upstairs. On the narrow landing 
two doors faced each other. She pointed to one. 

“Mine?” 

“Yes.” 

“That’s — how it’s been?” 

“Yes.” 

“ I only ask because of the servant. Where does 
she sleep?” 

“ Above ; there are two attics, that’s the extent. ” 

“And she’ll knock — here?” 

The girl nodded. “You’ll find everything you 
want. Of course it’s not as comfortable as Mr. 
Derringham’s, but you’ll have to put up with it.” 


240 


The Iron Stair 


“About the service? There isn’t an early one, 
I hope?” 

“No, nothing till eleven o’clock.” 

“I hope to God,” he said, “I can get through! 
Shall I have to read a sermon?” 

“No, there won’t be anyone to listen. Even 
on a Sunday there isn’t. And the people don’t 
approve of making Christmas day into that.” 

“Christmas day,” he muttered. “It’s that, 
Renee. A strange one for us. ” 

“Good-night,” she said, and opened her door to 
fall in tearless misery on widowed pillows, and 
wonder why she had so entangled herself in the 
meshes of life’s perplexities. 

If she had not interfered? If Geoffrey had been 
left to work out his sentence, and be released in the 
ordinary way? If 

But why pursue the subject? It was done. 
N othing could undo it. George Gale slept beneath 
the cold shroud of the snows, and Geoffrey — slept 
across that narrow space of landing which had 
meant divided hearts, and now divided lives. 

The stage was set and the play began. 

The servant suspected nothing. What was 
there to suspect? Master and mistress facing each 
other at the breakfast table. Master’s face very 
pallid, his hand a little shaky as he took his cup. 
Very little conversation while she was in the room. 
Afterwards, when they were left alone, Geoffrey 
was the more embarrassed. Ren6e for all her 


More Lives than One 


241 


pallor, and tense nerves, had accepted the situa- 
tion and played up to it. 

“I’ll go to the church with you. I’ll sit in the 
usual place. You know what to do, I suppose?” 

“Read the morning service, and — must there be 
a sermon?” 

She rose, and went to a bookshelf by the fireplace. 
‘ ‘ There are plenty here, ’ ’ she said. ^ ‘ All sorts, and 
lengths. You’ll have to look up one for Christmas 
day.” 

' * What — afterwards ? ’ ’ 

“Nothing, I suppose. I don’t know if we ought 
to call on the Rector. You see this is my first 
Christmas here.” 

“But oughtn’t I to visit the parishioners, give 
them tea and sugar and things?” 

^ ‘ I did that, yesterday, ’ ’ she said. * ^ That’s how 
I spent my Christmas eve.” 

He breathed a sigh of relief. * * The Rector won’t 
be likely to notice any difference?” 

“Not he. He’s half blind and half wilted. 
Besides, I’ll go there with you. ” 

“And, for the rest, for the other days and duties, 
you’ll tell me, won’t you, Ren6e?” 

^ ‘ Of course. Oh, my dear, it will be easy enough. 
Too easy I almost think. ” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“I mean that where there seems no obstacle, or 
impediment, one is almost afraid that Fate’s lying 
in wait to play some trick. Could anything be 
imagined so strange and yet so easy as this?” 

16 


242 


The Iron Stair 


Geoffrey pushed aside his cup, and leant his head 
on his hands. 

“I shall feel easier,” he said, “when they’ve 
found — him.” 

The girl’s face flushed, then grew deadly white. 
“So shall I. Oh, Geoffrey, was there anything, 
any mark, scar, something making a difference 
between you ? Y our hands ? ’ ’ 

He turned them palm upwards. The nails had 
grown and been trimmed. They were to be 
George Gale’s hands, but what of Geoffrey’s? 

“Whatever they notice,” he said, “they’ll not 
say anything. We’re stripped, and searched, and 
described, and it’s all put down in a book, but what 
answers for me will answer for him. The prison 
clothes would be enough, and the colour of hair, 
shape of features, height, they’re exactly the 
same. I’m not afraid of there being any doubt, 
though I don’t fancy facing any of those fellows 
myself.” 

“You needn’t. There’s no one likely to come 
here, and there’s no necessity for you to go to 
Princetown. George never did.” 

She rose. “He used to sit in that chair and 
smoke after breakfast, or potter round the garden. 
But that’s impossible now, owing to the snow. 
You’d better look out that sermon, Geoffrey, in 
case of accidents.” 

“You’re not to call me Geoffrey.” 

“I forgot. That’s the hardest part. I hate to 
have to give you his name. ” 


More Lives than One 


243 


^‘When once we can go away from here, you 
needn’t.’’ 

“No!” she cried eagerly. “That will alter 
everything. You can be yourself, and I ” 

She paused. Their eyes met. “I forgot. If 
you are to pass as George, I — I must pass as your 
wife?” 

“Unless we go away somewhere where we’re not 
known. ” 

“But that will mean money. You — you 

haven’t any, Geoffrey, and I — so little. ” 

“I must go through the farce of resigning Holy 
Orders, as Mr. Derringham said. Then I’ll work, 
do something that will make money. Mr. Derring- 
ham has promised to help me.” 

“What about father? If you give up being a 
clergyman he won’t be pleased. You’ll have to 
see him and explain your reasons. ” 

“I could write, or — or you might tell him I was 
— changed, Renee. Anyway, that’s for the future. 
We needn’t trouble about it yet. When shall you 
be ready for church?” 

‘ ‘ In half an hour. You’re quite safe in recogniz- 
ing any one in the village. They’re all your parish- 
ioners, only they don’t attend the services. ” 

But whether it was the result of the Christmas 
gifts, or from sudden desire to hear a Christmas 
sermon, there were quite a dozen people as congre- 
gation ; mostly women, and two very ancient men, 
whose wives had persuaded an attendance that 
might possibly mean more bounties. 


244 


The Iron Stair 


It was a shock to Renee, and a surprise. But 
when the white-robed figure came out of the vestry, 
and stood in the appointed place, she held her 
breath for sheer amazement. It might have been 
George in the life. George as she had seen him 
scores of times. George as he had stood and 
looked at the empty aisles, and the untenanted 
seats, and gabbled over excerpts of the service with 
stolid indifference. 

Geoffrey was nervous, but not perceptibly so. 
He made mistakes but no one was able to criticize 
them. He read out a brief sermon of safe plati- 
tudes, as the prison chaplain had so often done, 
and then he dismissed them all with a novel bless- 
ing that bade them enjoy the day each in their 
respective fashion. They shuffled out of the cold, 
dreary edifice and loitered about the churchyard 
in hopes of an odd shilling or sixpence. Renee had 
provided Geoffrey with small change and he dis- 
pensed it nervously as he hurried down the path. 
He could not address them by name, but they were 
too engrossed in their Christmas boxes to notice 
the omission. 

He breathed a sigh of thankfulness as the last 
curtsey was dropped and the last “thank ’ee, sir,” 
sounded. The first ordeal was over. He felt 
more self-confident. He could face facts more 
steadily, and in this frame of mind he accompanied 
Renee to the old Rectory. 


CHAPTER XX 


“the memory of dreadful things” 

Whatever there was of gloom, or shabbiness, or 
dust seemed to have gathered about and inside the 
queer old tumble-down place called Shapsdown 
Rectory. Its owner, as revealed to Geoffrey Gale’s 
astonished eyes, was a blear-eyed, bald old man of 
some fourscore and odd years. So many of those 
years had been spent in this desolate moorland 
hamlet that he had lost all touch with the outer 
world. He lived alone, with no relative, only an 
old housekeeper to look after his needs, and take 
charge of the house, such as it was. 

She showed Renee and Geoffrey into the one 
living-room, where the reverend gentleman sat 
crouched over the fire, sipping weak whiskey and 
water into which he occasionally dipped a mouldy- 
looking biscuit. This was his luncheon. 

He looked up as the door opened, and blinked 
his eyes, and muttered some sort of greeting. 

Geoffrey went up and held out his hand, but the 
old man was too occupied with his glass and his 
biscuit to notice it. 

^ ‘ Service over ? Any one there today ? ” he asked. 
245 


246 


The Iron Stair 


“Yes,” said Renee. “Quite a dozen people 
including myself.” 

“A dozen! Never. . . . Lord above! You’re 
waking them up, Mr. Gale. I said you were too 
young. Young men are too zealous. They be- 
lieve what they preach. I did — once. ” 

His harsh laugh was as disconcerting as the grat- 
ing of a key in a rusty lock. 

“Sit down, ” he went on. “ Have some whiskey. 
It’s Christmas day isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” said Geoffrey. “But I don’t want any- 
thing, so early.” 

“Early? Why, you’ve had your glass at ten 
o’clock ! It’s the first time you think it too early. 
. . . Ah, your wife’s here! She keeps you in 
order. That’s right. Do what she tells you. . . . 
Pretty chick!” 

He grinned and nodded at Renee, who turned 
aside with an expression of disgust. 

“So they came to church . . . and didn’t 
stone you, eh? They used to throw bricks at me 
— once. Pleasant brutes! Oh — ^we loved each 
other, I assure you!” 

Again he laughed, and nodded, and spluttered. 
Geoffrey thought it was surely by some oversight 
of “those in authority” that such a wreck of de- 
cency should usurp the office of a dignitary of the 
church. He glanced appealingly at Renee. She 
rose. 

“We just came in to wish you — the usual Christ- 
mas wishes, Mr. Ramsdown,” she said, and put 


The Memory of Dreadful Things 247 

her chair back in its place against the patched and 
faded wall paper. 

*‘Yes . . . yes . . . very kind. I’m an old 
man, my dear, no one remembers me. All dead 
and gone, everyone I knew, dead and gone. . . . 
I’ll soon be joining them. . . . You’re going 
home? Ah . . . Christmas dinner, and plum 
pudding, and sitting over the fire, cracking nuts, 
drinking good old port. . . . Lucky folk. If 
I were ten years younger I’d have joined you. I 
used to have my Christmas dinner with the other 
man. . . . He was old too. ... He could 
tell a good story though, over the port, and the fire. 
Well,well,everythinghasanend. . . . Good-bye 
then. Take care of the pretty chick . . . this isn’t 
the sort of roost for her .... Mind she doesn’t 
spread her wings and fly away. She wouldn’t be 
the first. ... I know ... I know. . . .” 

To the sotmd of his harsh chuckles they closed 
the door and went out into the cold fresh air with a 
sense of relief. As they moved over the frozen 
snow they caught the sound of a motor horn. 
Renee started. 

“Aubrey — Mr. Derringham! Oh, I’m so glad! 
He will have dinner with us. I wondered — I hope 
he’s brought Chaff ey too. He’s such a dear! 
He’ll be company for Ann.” 

Geoffrey’s voice was a reminder. “Ann? You 
forget he*s not the chauffeur to her!” 

“So I did. Well, he can dine with us. You 
won’t mind?” 


248 


The Iron Stair 


“Have I the right to mind anything? What 
am I now but a passive agent, in the hands of you 
aU?’’ 

They hurried on and reached the house. The 
little Renault was standing before the gate. 
Chaffey held the wheel. 

Renee’s face made enquiry as she ran up. 

“Mr. Darrell’s inside, ma’am — waiting.” 

He had accustomed himself to call Aubrey that. 
Even now he glanced round to see if there were 
inquisitive loiterers to hear it. Then he looked 
at Geoffrey. 

“You must come in too!” exclaimed Renee. 
“You’re to have your Christmas dinner with us. 
I insist on it. It’s to be ready by two o’clock, 
Ann promised. Then she’s to go out for the rest of 
the day. We — ” she stopped abruptly. 

“Perhaps you’ll ask Mr. Darrell about it?” 
said Chaffey. “Where’s the car to go?” 

“Can’t it stay— there?” 

“Yes, of course. But the sky looks threatening. 
There’ll be snow before night, and the road is 
something awful. ” 

His eyes shifted restlessly from Geoffrey’s face 
to Geoffrey’s figure. They expressed surprise as 
well as admiration for an achievement. Who, in 
Princetown, or Dartmoor, would ever associate 
that wasted desperate looking No. 96 with this 
handsome well dressed cleric. And who, who had 
ever seen George Gale, would believe this was not 
that person? 


The Memory of Dreadful Things 249 

^^And I did it all!” he thought complacently, 
stroke of genius, that’s what it was. Lord! 
if they only knew up there how they’d been 
tricked!” 

It was a strange meal, that Christmas dinner to 
which they all sat down. Renee the pale and 
anxious hostess ; Geoffrey masquerading as master 
of the ceremony. Chaffey assuming the rdle 
of genial friend. Aubrey Derringham stern and 
perplexed and painfully nervous now that the 
machinery had been set in motion, and results had 
to be ascertained. 

Ann Whyddon thought it a very stiff, unfriendly 
sort of party. No one seemed to have any appe- 
tite for boiled turkey and its accompaniments; 
and the plum pudding, laboriously manufactured 
during the past anxious weeks, refused to take fire, 
or stand up, or represent anything that a moral, 
well-brought-up pudding should have represented. 
When she had removed the plates and the cloth, 
and set nuts and apples on the table, flanked by a 
decanter of the port wine that the old Rector had 
sent, Renee told her she might go home, and take 
the rest of the pudding with her. 

Don’t wait to wash up,” she added. ^Tt will 
do when you come back. ” 

The girl gasped. This was a proper sort of 
^‘missus. ” One whose praises might well be sung 
to less favoured contemporaries. 

She lost no time in availing herself of the permis- 


250 


The Iron Stair 


sion. They heard the door slam before ten minutes 
were over their heads. 

Then Chaffey rose. ''Begging your pardon, 
ma’am, and you, sir. I’ll retire now. I know you 
want to talk things over. ” 

Aubrey nodded. The door of the room closed, 
and Geoffrey got up and stirred the fire; they drew 
their chairs closer around it. 

"So far all has gone well,” he said. "But I 
don’t mind telling you that it’s a strain.” 

"You must have patience,” said Aubrey. "It 
would look strange if you left here very sud- 
denly.” 

"I wouldn’t mind if I hadn’t to play at wolf in 
sheep’s clothing,” said the boy bitterly. "I’m 
not what you call religious, never was. But I 
hated standing in that church this morning, dressed 
in that surplice, reading out those — prayers. And 
as luck would have it some people did come. ” 

"You did it very well,” said Renee.” 

"My prison experiences stood to me,” he said 
in the same bitter tone. "I used to wonder what 
the chaplain felt. What he really thought was the 
good of it.” 

"Don’t you think it was any good?” Aubrey 
asked. 

"No, not a bit. Some took to canting by way of 
currying favour, but most of us felt more inclined 
to follow Job’s example — ' Curse God and die ’ — 
than bless his name, or ask his pardon. When life 
is poisoned, and day for day means only hardship 


The Memory of Dreadful Things 251 

and despair, you’re not exactly in tune with 
spiritual things! By the way, Renee, you’ve no 
music in the church. What’s happened to the 
organ?” 

“It’s no use at all. There’s a wheezy old har- 
monium. I used to play it at first but — he, we 
thought it made matters worse. ” 

“I’d like to do something, if I could,” he said, 
“just to, well, to know that I had done something. 
I want to have no time to think ! Let me have 
every day, every hour, filled up, if you can.” 

Renee cowered down into her chair, and covered 
her face with her hands. That was how he felt, 
and how she felt. Both their lives darkened and 
perplexed. So much to forget; so little to do; 
and everything to fear. 

Aubrey Derringham glanced at the bent head, 
and his heart ached for the girl. If he could have 
helped to avert this catastrophe he would have 
made any sacrifice, but it had been already too late 
to do anything when Chaffey had staggered into 
the house carrying in his arms those clothes George 
Gale had worn. In the excitement of the project 
all sight of future difficulties had lapsed into pre- 
sent hopefulness. So little had been said at the 
moment. vSo much taken for granted. 

Aubrey had not even known that Chaffey’s 
daring had not been exhausted by his first action. 
Had not guessed that not only was the clerical 
dress removed, but replaced by that of the escaped 
convict. The man had had the courage to do this 


252 


The Iron Stair 


thing, and having done it, the consequences had to 
be endured. 

In cool blood Aubrey Derringham recognized 
the danger as well as the frightful liabilities to 
which he was pledged. He and Renee. Would 
she have the strength to go through with it? To 
live on here with the man who was not her husband 
and yet who loved her? That secret he had 
quickly discovered. 

Today, seeing them playing a part that held all 
the intimacy and commonplace interests of married 
life, he was appalled by the difficulties before them. 
For a time, while danger threatened, while they 
had to remain in this moorland district, they rnight 
play their respective parts — ^but afterwards — 
what complications would have to be faced? 

Renee lifted her head suddenly. “There’s one 
way out of it,” she faltered. “Couldn’t I go 
home to father? At least for a time? I’m no 
use here; no one will miss me, and Geoffrey will be 
quite safe. No one suspects.” 

Geoffrey looked at her, read the fear, the agony, 
the suffering of the young haggard face. Saw 
too that it was to Aubrey she turned, to Aubrey 
she appealed. 

“It’s, a good idea,” he said harshly. “I’ll be 
better alone.” 

“You can have the car,” said Renee eagerly. 
“ Chaff ey would show you how to drive it. And 
then, perhaps in a month, or two, you could write 
and say you were giving up this curacy ” 


The Memory of Dreadful Things 253 

“And the priestly humbug?” he added. “But 
I’ll have to keep clear of Manchester, Renee. I 
daren’t face your father. Somehow, I think he’s 
the only one who would see that the ‘clothes 
are the clothes of Esau, but the hands are — 
Jacob’s.’ ” 

Aubrey Derringham rose. “ I agree with Renee. 
It is the best plan. We have no right to tax her 
with daily subterfuge; a daily struggle. Besides, 
to quote Stevenson — ‘there’s a decency to be 
observed.’ To all intents and purposes she is a 
widow, in the first days of her loss. We seem to 
have lost sight of that fact in our eagerness to 
reinstate you, Geoffrey. ” 

He paced the room slowly; his brows knit, his 
eyes on the carpet. Certainly this was the best 
plan, that Renee should go home for a time, and 
Geoffrey remain here. Once that — discovery — 
was made, once the snow drift gave up its secret, 
he would be safe. Then he could slip out of 
George Gale’s shoes as far as the ministry was 
concerned. He came back to the fire, and lit a 
cigarette, and offered his case to Geoffrey. They 
sat there silently for a few moments, each busy 
with their own thoughts. A knock at the door and 
the entrance of Chaffey disturbed them. He held 
some letters in his hand. 

“Post just come,” he announced. “Morning’s 
delivery — Christmas time ! ” 

He put the letters on the table, and Renee rose 
and looked them over. Two for George; one for 


254 


The Iron Stair 


her. As she saw the writing, she started. Then 
tore it open and read the brief lines. 

She turned to Geoffrey. “From father! He’s 
coming here! To spend Christmas — a little sur- 
prise. . . The letter fell from her shaking 
hand. “He’s — at Princetown, on the way. Oh, 
Geoffrey!” 

Aubrey picked up the letter. He too had grown 
very pale. 

It was an affectionate reminder that Andrew 
Jessop was desirous to see his dear son and daugh- 
ter, and escape the loneliness of a Christmas 
fireside. He would be with them either on Christ- 
mas eve, or Christmas day. No need to meet 
him. He’d make his way over the moor and drop 
in as a “pleasant simprise. ” 

‘ ‘ Pleasant surprise ! ’ ’ Aubrey echoed the words 
and glanced at the two who were to be surprised 
so pleasantly. Here was a complication to be 
faced. 

Geoffrey sprang to his feet. “He’s not come — 
yet. But he’s on his way. Renee, what’s to be 
done?” 

She lifted her white face. “We’ve got to go 
through with it ... . He’ll have to stay here. 
. . . Perhaps it will only be a few days, Geof- 
frey. You’ll ” 

“For God’s sake don’t call me that!'^ he said. 
“Try and remember who I am now. ” 

“The room?” she faltered. “Yours ” 

“I must give it up?” 


The Memory of Dreadful Things 255 

*‘Yes, there^s no other.’* 

“What about the attics?” 

“They’re not furnished. At least only Ann’s.” 

“Let her sleep at home,” said Aubrey. “She 
won’t mind ; it’s in the village. ” 

“Yes, that would do,” said Geoffrey quickly. 
“We must play up to the situation now. We’re 
in a tight place, but I promise I’ll do my best, 
Renee, for your sake. ” 

“For her sake you must, ” said Aubrey. “This 
is a thing we couldn’t have expected, or prepared 
against. And he must be on his way. He might 
be here at any moment. What’s the date of the 
postmark?” 

Geoffrey picked up the envelope. “December 
twenty-fourth. He was at Princetown yesterday. 
I wonder why he didn’t come on? ” 

They looked at one another. The same thought 
flashed to each mind. Had Jessop stayed on to 
visit the prison, to interview those in authority 
as to the escape of that unfortunate No. 96? 

Renee sprang up impulsively. “Wheels! I 
hear them! Oh, Aubrey, stay — help us! We 
... I don’t know how to face this!” 

He took her hands, and held them tightly. 
“ I’ll stay, of course. But youmust control yourself. 
You can’t break down now. You mustn’t.” 

“And, after all, it needn’t alter your plan,” 
said Geoffrey. “You can say you want a change 
— that it’s too bleak for you up here — and then go 
back with him.” 


256 


The Iron Stair 


A loud knock at the door warned them of an 
arrival. 

I’ll go, ” said Renee desperately. “Keep there 
Geof — George, in the shadow. The fire’s low. If 
we get through the first few minutes we’re all right.’ ’ 

They heard the stir and bustle in the hall. The 
dumping down of a portmanteau ; the grumbling of 
the driver, who had brought the unwelcome visitor, 
and evidently expected a larger tip than one that 
doubled his ordinary fare. 

Then someone came in, and Geoffrey rose. 

“Uncle ” 

“My dear boy!” His hands were seized, the 
voice was strangely agitated. “My dear George, 
a word with you alone I I’ve had a shock . . . . 
I’m terribly upset! Send Renee away. I must 
speak to you!” 

Aubrey came up. “I’ll take Mrs. Gale into the 
next room, shall I?” 

Andrew Jessop peered at him in the dusk of the 
waning firelight. 

“Who is this? A friend of yours, George?” 

“Mr. Darrell, a neighbour. My imcle, Mr. 
Darrell.” 

“Say father, my boy; I’m that now, you know. 
Well, just a moment, Mr. — ah — Darrell. Get 
Renee away. I want a word with George. ” 

Aubrey seized the opportunity. Renee was 
just entering; he stopped her. 

“Come into the kitchen for a moment,” he 
whispered. 


The Memory of Dreadful Things 257 

“What’s happened?” 

* * I don’ t know. He wants to speak to Geoffrey . ’ ’ 
“Geoffrey — again! Shall we ever remember? 
Oh — I wonder what it is? Something dreadful 
I’m sure. He looked so strange. He hardly 
seemed to see me. And the first thing he said was, 
'Where’s George? I must speak to George!’” 

17 


CHAPTER XXI 


'‘he — IS AT peace'' 

Geoffrey Gale dragged forward a chair, 
keeping his face well in the shadow. 

^^Sit down, uncle. What's happened to upset 
you?" 

The old man was trembling greatly. Geoffrey 
poured out a glass of wine, and gave it him. 

“It’s port, good old stuff. Drink it up, and 
then tell me." 

“Ah, my boy, that’s like you — always thought- 
ful." 

He gulped down the wine, and set the glass on 
the table. 

“George," he said solemnly, “they've found — 
him." 

“Who?” faltered Geoffrey. 

“Your brother. It appears word came to the 
prison this morning of a — a body, found in the 
snow, somewhere on the moor. I — I drove with 
them, George. I had a presentiment. ... We 
found him — frozen — dead, half hidden by the 
snow, in the prison clothes. It was a shock. 
Yes, I confess that. He was so changed ... it 
258 


He — Is at Peace 


259 


was awful! Well, well, that^s the end of it and his 
mad idea of escape. I was planning something 
for his future, George. I was learning to forgive. 
... I was trying to believe he’d been tempted, 
led astray, in one of those hours when he wasn’t 
himself. In those long solitary months, my boy, 
I’ve tried to think things over calmly. I — had 
succeeded, in a way. And when I went over that 
place yesterday, and saw the faces, heard some 
of the stories — well, George, I ... I broke down. 
I confess it. I wished I hadn’t been so hard. I 
wished I’d let him off. Who knows — ^it might 
have been a lesson? Well, it’s too late now, poor 
lad; it’s too late. His eyes were wide open, 
George. They seemed to accuse me. And that 
hateful dress, and his pinched blue face, and — 
once you and he had played in my garden, with 
my own little child . . . happy, innocent . . . 
God have mercy on me, George, if I’ve been too 
harsh! Do you ever blame me in your heart?” 

Did — he — ever blame him? All the bitterness 
of those past 'months of savage endurance swept 
like a storm over Geoffrey’s tense nerves. 

do blame you — everyone! All the fools 
who judged and condemned and sent a living soul 
to hell!” 

George — ^you forget you yourself condemned! 
You were as bitter as I was.” 

The boy checked himself, and remembered the 
change of parts that necessitated a change of 
moral nature. 


26 o 


The Iron Stair 


“I know/* he muttered. “But perhaps IVe 
changed too.” 

“You never went there, George, to see him?*’ 

“Never.” 

“Nor I. Now it seems as if the hand of God 
was in it. That I should have come here, that I 
should be crossing that awful moor where he met 
his death, and there — face him again.’* 

Suddenly he bent his head on his hands, his 
shoulders shaking in a sudden storm of weeping. 

“There’s Renee, ” he said at last. “She’ll have 
to be told. What a melancholy Christmas time 
. . . and I’ve not seen — ^you or her — since your 
wedding day.” 

Geoffrey was silent. What could he say? 

“I suppose she’s heard of the escape?” the old 
man went on. “They notified me. But I didn’t 
write. Being so near I felt sure you’d hear of 
it. At first I thought he might have come to you 
for safety. But there, of course, you couldn’t 
do it. The risk was too great. Yet it wasn’t so 
very far from here we found him, George.” 

“We — yes, we heard.” 

“It’s four weeks since he got away. I wonder 
what he’d been doing all that time? How could 
he have got food, or kept hidden — ^in those 
clothes?” 

“The moor has strange hiding places,” said 
Geoffrey. “And someone may have taken pity 
on him. We’re not all police spies.” 

The old man looked up eagerly. Even in the 


He — Is at Peace 


261 


dusk he could see how moved and fierce that young 
face was. “You — you have forgiven him, George. 
You’d have taken pity, wouldn’t you?” 

“I — I think so.” 

“And Renee? She always said he was innocent. 
I wonder if she knew where he was hiding, if she 
helped? She has a motor car, hasn’t she?” 

“Only a little thing that holds two people.” 

“It occurred to me that — but no — it’s a foolish 
idea. Still, as you said, George, someone must 
have played good Samaritan, and at what a risk.” 

“A terrible risk, as you say, uncle.” 

His voice was hard and harsh with the supreme 
effort to keep all emotion out of it; for despite 
himself, his sufferings, his just anger with those to 
whom he owed these sufferings, he could not forget 
that the dead man in the snow had been his 
brother, bound to him by an even closer bond than 
ordinary brotherhood. And now, they would 
never touch hands, nor speak forgiveness. Be- 
tween their two lives yawned the grim depths of 
a prison grave. 

Suddenly he seized the old man’s hand. “Oh, 
can’t we spare him that!'' he cried hoarsely. “At 
least claim him; give him Christian burial, a 
decent resting place?” 

“I asked them,” faltered the old man. “I 
thought of that too, George, but they only said 
it couldn’t be done. He hadn’t served his sen- 
tence; he’d incurred fresh penalties by that 
escape.” 


262 


The Iron Stair 


“This is a Christian land,’’ said Geoffrey 
bitterly. “One must expect such mercies as 
these as evidence of Christianity.” 

“It’s very hard. ... I know what you must 
feel, my boy. If even you had had the consolation 
of reading the last offices over a simple grave, 
in some quiet corner, here — but that’s denied us. 
He’s gone out of our lives for ever, God rest his 
soul.” 

“Yes. . . . God rest his soul — if he deserves it, ” 
muttered Geoffrey, as he stooped to stir the dying 
fire. 

“And now we’ve Renee to think of,” said the 
old man. “She must be told. There’s no help 
for it, is there?” 

Geoffrey sprang at the suggestion. “She’s far 
from well. It will be a great shock. I’ve been 
thinking, uncle, of sending her away for a time, 
for change. It’s so cold and desolate here. Your 
arrival has put the idea into my head that she 
might go back with you. I’m sure it would do 
her good.” 

“My dear boy, I’d be only too delighted. But 
what about yourself? Can you spare her? I 
thought a clergyman’s wife was as necessary to 
the parish as himself?” 

“So she is, but I mustn’t sacrifice Renee’s health 
to personal considerations and the parish. No, 
no, she sadly needs a change. Take her back to 
Manchester with you. She wants to go, I know.” 

“George, my boy.” The old man’s voice was 


He — Is at Peace 263 

troubled. ^^Tell me — is there anything wrong? 
Aren’t you happy?” 

'‘Of course — perfectly. Don’t get that into 
your head; I mean don’t fancy that we don’t hit 
it off. It’s nothing to do with that. It’s the 

place . . . it’s awful, uncle, you’ve no idea ” 

" I formed an idea when I saw your surroundings. 
By the way, whose car was that at the door?” 

“Mr. Der — Darrell’s, that gentleman you saw. 
He’s been dining with us.” 

“Does he live here?” 

“No — o; only stays occasionally, with a friend, 
who has a house near Two Bridges.” 

“He looked a nice, well set up sort of chap. By 
the way, where is he, and Renee?” 

“You said you wanted to speak to me alone.” 

“ So I did, but call her in now, my boy. I want 
to see her. See how happy she looks, and how she 
fits the post of clergyman’s wife. Call her in.” 
“What about telling her — this?” 

“Ah — true, true! Suppose we keep it to our- 
selves, just for to-day, my boy. No need to sadden 
her . . . your first Christmas together too as man 
and wife. No, we’ll keep it to ourselves, as I said 
before. Oh — I do hope you’ve got a spare room? 
I gave very short notice, didn’t I?” 

“Oh! that’s all right,” said Geoffrey. “We 
have a room. I’ll call Renee, and get a lamp. 
Our maid has gone off to her own people. You 
must excuse any shortcomings.” 

He hastened away. He wondered what he 


264 


The Iron Stair 


should say to Renee? How explain this long 
conversation? 

They were standing in a group before the kitchen 
fire. She, and Aubrey Derringham, and Chaffey. 
In each face he read a question that he felt his 
own answered. 

‘ ‘ They Ve found him ? ’ ’ gasped Renee. ‘ ^ I knew 
it.” 

Geoffrey said nothing. He saw the lamp stand- 
ing on a side table, and went up to it and lit it. 

“Your father wants you, Renee,” he said 
hoarsely. “You’re not to know of this till to- 
morrow. He doesn’t want to spoil our first 
Christmas — together. ’ ’ 

Her eyes turned from one face to the other. 
“Geoffrey, Aubrey — oh — I can’t go through any 
more! \carCt!'' 

She threw herself into a chair. She was shaking 
from head to foot. The great tears rolled un- 
checked down her piteous face. 

Aubrey turned to Geoffrey. “It’s no use,” he 
said. ‘ ‘ She’s gone through too much. Y ou’ll have 
to say she guessed — what’s happened. Let her go 
to her room, and leave her to herself for a while.” 

The girl staggered to her feet. “Yes, yes, let 
me go, let me be alone! Aubrey — help me!” 

He drew back from the outstretched hand; from 
the shaking figure. 

“It’s your duty,” he said to the white-faced 
boy. “Take her to her room. I’ll explain to her 
father.” 


He — Is at Peace 265 

And Geoffrey Gale put his arm round the trem- 
bling girl and led her away. 

Andrew Jessop accepted explanations, and ac- 
cepted Aubrey Derringham also as a friend of 
the family, and someone keenly interested in both 
his nephews. They sat by the fire talking and 
smoking together, while Geoffrey ministered to the 
poor distraught girl above stairs, and Chaff ey 
wondered how they were going to get home? For a 
sudden thaw had set in, and sleet and hail were 
beating against the window panes, in a manner 
that promised slushy roads and a perilous journey. ' 

Disliking idleness, he made up the fire, and put 
on the kettle, and got out the tea things. In Ann’s 
absence he deemed it as well to perform her duties. 
Besides the old gentleman had had a long cold 
drive, and Renee might like a cup of tea, when her 
hysterical fit was over. 

“Poor girl, she’s gone through a lot, I must 
say,” he told himself. “And after all he was her 
husband.” 

To Geoffrey’s amazement, he found tea made 
and set out on a tray, when he came downstairs. 
He carried it into the dining-room, with an excuse 
for Renee’s absence. 

“She’s quieter now. She thinks she can sleep. 
I’m sure, uncle, you won’t mind if she doesn’t 
come down tonight. This has been a trying time 
for — for us all.” 

“I’m sure it has. Mr. Darrell here has been 


266 


The Iron Stair 


explaining about the search parties, and the excite- 
ment everywhere. Ah, my dear boy, how welcome 
that tea is. I see you’re quite a domestic character 
now.” 

Geoffrey was thankful for Aubrey Derringham’s 
presence, for his tact and energy, and the skill 
with which he directed the old man’s attention 
from painful or personal matters. Suddenly the 
idea of a room to be prepared occurred to him. 
It must be his own room, and the old man must 
not know it. He had decided to sleep on the couch 
in the dining-room, but there were details and he 
worried over them. Clean sheets and towels, a 
fire to be lit, and he knew nothing of linen cup- 
boards, or wood house. He thought again of 
Chaff ey and his character of “handy man.” 

He rose and put the tea things together. “I’ll just 
see if the girl’s come back,” he said. “She must 
air your room, uncle. I wish we had known a little 
sooner, but you were here on the heels of your letter.” 

“I know, my boy, it’s all my fault. But don’t 
bother yourself. I’m quite comfortable here. 
I’ll wait as long as you please.” 

So Geoffrey went back to the kitchen, and 
explained difficulties, and the invaluable Chaffey 
met and smoothed them away with the skill of an 
expert. He found the wood house and lit the 
fire, and discovered where the linen was and made 
the bed. He brought up the old gentleman’s 
portmanteau, and made everything comfortable 
for him. He even tiptoed across to Renee’s 


He — Is at Peace 


267 


room, where she slept the sleep of exhaustion, and 
saw that her fire was made up, and the lamp put 
where it would not hurt her eyes. 

The question of the homeward journey recurred 
to his mind, as the rain beat against the windows 
with persistent animosity. ^‘We might stop at 
the inn? I suppose they’ve got rooms?” he re- 
flected. I wonder if master would mind? I don’t 
care to take the car over that road. It would 
have to swim, I’m thinking.” 

Aubrey was thinking the same. He saw no 
possibility of getting home through quagmires 
of mud and melting snow. He came out of the 
sitting-room to discuss the matter just as Chaffey 
came down the stairs. 

^‘Been getting the old gent’s room ready, sir,” 
he whispered. “And she’s asleep, poor soul. 
Best thing too. I’d have given her some hot port 
with chlorodyne in it, if I’d had my way.” 

“Your medical ambitions will be your ruin, 
Chaffey,” said Aubrey, with a faint smile. “I 
want to know what we’re going to do?” 

“If I might suggest, sir, I’d say stay where we 
are.” 

“What— 

“Not exactly this house, sir. What about the 
inn? I thought I might run round and see if we 
could have a couple of rooms for the night. The 
car could be put up somewhere. I suppose they’ve 
a stable or a cow house?” 

“I doubt it,” said Aubrey. “And the inn is 


268 


The Iron Stair 


only a beer house. Couldn’t we get as far as Two 
Bridges?” 

“I’ll try, sir, but there’s an awful bit of road 
when you get out of the village.” 

“Well, do yoiu* best; I leave it to you.” 

“Thank you, sir. Everything’s shipshape here. 
I expect that girl, Ann Whyddon, will puzzle her 
head a bit. But the old gent will be all right, and 
so’ll Mrs. Gale. I suppose Mr. Geof — I mean Mr. 
Gale, will give an eye to her, now and then. I 
haven’t much faith in that Ann.” 

“I’ll tell him,” said Aubrey. 

He was conscious of sudden weariness; of long 
strain, and repressed emotions. 

“You look very tired, sir, ’ ’ said Chaffey . * ‘ This 

is getting a bit too much for you.” 

He came nearer, and lowered his voice. “It’ll 
be all right now, sir, don’t you worry. Right down 
providential I call it that the old gent should have 
been there to identify. No one will say a word, 
even if they thought — ^but why should they think? 
No one, sir, in the prison ever saw Mr. George. 
No one here ever saw Mr. Geoffrey. Only his 
uncle and ourselves know of the likeness. Today, 
sir, has finished it up. Believe me, we needn’t 
fear. You see how easy Mr. Geoffrey has passed 
into his place, just as I said he would. Not a soul 
suspects, nor ever will — now.” 

“I hope to God you’re right, Chaffey!” said 
Aubrey fervently. “Somehow I feel — afraid.” 

“Afraid of what, sir?” 


He — Is at Peace 269 

“I don’t know. That’s just it. Perhaps it’s 
of — Geoffrey Gale — himself.” 

“I don’t understand, sir. Why, it’s to his 
interest to keep up the ” 

“The deception. You don’t like the word, 
Chaffey, any more than I do. We’ve been play- 
ing a dangerous game. We can’t stop playing, 
that’s the worst of it, and we’ve dragged a woman 
into the business, and she — she has to go on too. 
You never thought of that, Chaffey?” 

“Thought of — her, sir?” 

“Yes, of her. If she loves Geoffrey, if he loves 
her — what then? ” 

“That would make it all the easier, sir, if it’s 
the case. But I don’t believe it is. I’m sure the 
young lady doesn’t care for Mr. Geoffrey, except 
as the cousin he is.” 

“And she didn’t care for George Gale, yet she 
married him. Do you understand that?” 

“No, sir, I don’t.” 

“We’ve driven her into a corner, Chaffey. 
We’d no right to do it. We should have thought 
— but there, I was wrong, I was a fool.” 

He passed to and fro the brick floor of the little 
kitchen. 

In all this confusion, this clash of personalities, 
he was conscious only of a girl’s helplessness. It 
was as if he saw her sinking into deep waters 
and could only stand on the bank watching her 
struggles, impotent, panic-stricken, as one bound 
by the horrors of nightmare. 


270 


The Iron Stair 


“Come, come, sir, pull yourself together. What’s 
the good of looking at the worst side of things? I 
know it’s my fault. I took you by surprise, but 
I’m sure, sir, we’ll get through all right. Look 
how things are a playing up to us. Who’d ’a’ 
thought of Mr. Jessop turning up here. That’s 
the odd trick for us, sir, my word on it!” 


CHAPTER XXII 


“whether laws be right, or whether laws 

BE WRONG ” 

They seciired rooms at the inn for the night, 
rough and queer, but endurable. Chafley spent 
half an hour in the bar, and learnt many things 
concerned with the “young passon’’ and his 
wife. Geoffrey Gale had no enviable reputation 
to keep up judging from what was said of George. 
There was talk too of that discovery on the moor. 
The driver of old Jessop’s carriage had stopped 
to refresh his horses, and himself. Then, being 
weather-wise, and amply paid for his journey 
thither, he resolved to postpone departure till day- 
light. The news he brought was exciting enough 
to procure him “free drinks” for the sake of it. 

The point at issue seemed that of where the 
yoimg convict could have lain hidden, and where 
he could have procured food? 

“ Stole it, of course, ” suggested Chaff ey. “ Ain’t 
there hens and eggs to be had, and wild rabbits? 
Heaps of ways to keep oneself alive.” 

“But in the end, sir, he’s died o’ starvin’,” said 
the landlord of “The Poor John.” “He’d ha’ 
271 


272 


The Iron Stair 


bided in his hidin' place but for want o' food, that 
be sure." 

“Didn't seem as he look starved," observed the 
flyman from Princetown. “Not a scarcecrow sort 
o' corpse, so to say. Han't yew missed things 
anywhere about 'ere?" 

There was an immediate proclamation of strayed 
poultry, mysterious disappearance of bread. Even 
a joint or two from the local butcher's stall shared 
in the new glory of exploited thefts. 

Chaffey felt he was being rewarded. 

“What’ll they do to un, now he'm captured?" 
enquired an eager voice. 

“Can't ha' th' law on a dead corpse," said the 
landlord. “They'll let un bide quiet now, I reckon." 

“They might try an' find out who'd been con- 
cealin' o' he all this time," said the flyman. 
“They'd get pimished, sure 'nough. Aidin' an’ 
abettin' a criminal is th' same as bein' a criminal 
offender. Tes wrote so in print up against police 
coiurt walls, an' that's evidence." 

“Yew knaws a powerful lot I s'pose, driver, 
seein’ as ow yew lives up to Prince's town?" 

“I du," said the flyman modestly. “Us gets 
to know an' to see an' to 'ear what ere's goin’ 
round. Them married warders tells things to 
their wives, an' wimmen must clack. We all 
knaws that." 

“'Twas surprisin' 'ow 'e ever got away," said 
the landlord. “It du seem as someone 'ad 'elped 
’e. Wonder ef 'twill ever cum out?" 


273 


Whether Laws be Right 

Chaffey found himself devoutly hoping it never 
would. The superiority of his present position 
gave him the right of interfering with the debate. 
He deemed it wise to try and throw them off the 
track. 

'Ht wasn’t necessary to be helped,” he said. 

There were two men, and they managed to 
break their chains, and get off in the fog. They 
weren’t the first either.” 

‘‘That be trew,” observed another convivial 
soul. “It’s been tried afore, an’ it’ll be tried 
again. But it baint no manner o’ use. They be 
allays caught; dead or alive.” 

“This un ha’ been the longest to keep out o’ 
th’ way, poor chap ! Seems mortal ’ard to ’ave to 
give in arter all. Can’t think why ’e didn’t get 
right away, when ’e ’ad th’ chance.” 

“Them clothes o’ course,” said the flyman. 
“’E couldn’t ’a’ got off the moor no how. Every 
place was watched, an’ every train. They even 
’ad search parties to call roimd at all th’ ’ouses an’ 
cottages. It du seem mysterious. ’Owever they’ll 
’ush it up now, an’ glad to do it. Them other 
chaps’ll suffer for it though. They’ll not be 
allowed out of prison bounds for long ’nough.” 

Chaffey rose, declining the landlord’s suggestion 
as to further orders. He was not so comfortable in 
his mind when he thought of the risks run, and 
the danger still to be faced. 

Proud as he was of his own part in the achieve- 
ment of an escape from Dartmoor he had a dis- 


274 


The Iron Stair 


concerting memory of formalities concerning that 
discovered body. If any eyes were sharp enough 
to detect a difference, if suspicion was voiced as to 
the identity of the man in No. 96’s dress with the 
actual 96 — ^what then? 

He must warn Geoffrey on no account to go near 
Princetown. And, for the rest — well, they must 
trust to providence to keep any official out of 
this district until he was able to leave it. 

Aubrey Derringham was told of the discussion 
and the conjectures. “A good thing that that 
flyman didn’t catch sight of Mr. Geoffrey, sir. I 
was thinking that all the time.” 

“We’re not out of the wood yet,” said Aubrey. 
“We must be very careful. It’s fortimate that 
George Gale was never the genial house- visiting 
sort of cleric. The quieter and more aloof Geof- 
frey keeps himself the better for all concerned.” 

Then he dismissed the man, and threw himself 
down on the uninviting bed in a vain endeavour 
to snatch a few hours’ sleep. 

He was realizing every day, every hour, the 
danger of complications, and the danger of dis- 
covery. They had set themselves to play a game 
of Chance with Fate, and no one could decide 
yet who held the last trump that would decide the 
issue. 

The next day the roads were as bad as ever. 
Aubrey walked, or rather waded, to the hotel at 
Two Bridges, and resolved to stay there until it 


275 


Whether Laws be Right 

was possible to use the car. He left Chaffey on 
the ground to pick up information, and give the 
necessary warning to Geoffrey as to stations. 

Above all he mustn’t go to Princetown. When 
they leave suggest Moreton Hampstead, and 
motor them over. Mrs. Gale can take her own 
car, and I’ll drive the other with the luggage. I 
shall feel easier and safer somehow when they are 
gone.” 

Chaffey brought word that Mrs. Gale was 
equally anxious to leave at once, and that he had 
put a wholesome terror of being “snowed up” 
into the old gentleman’s mind, if he didn’t seize 
the first fine day and get off. 

So the third day after that fateful Christmas 
they arranged to leave. The roads were bad still, 
but passable. Aubrey, fearing Renee’s skill might 
be too severely taxed, offered to drive her, thus 
leaving Chaffey to pilot the “old gent,” as he 
called him. This arrangement precluded Geof- 
frey’s company, or parting scenes at the station. 
And as Aubrey tucked the rugs around the girl, 
and took his place by her side, he wondered if all 
that had happened since that last eventful time 
were not some evil dream. If, soon, he would not 
awake, and find the sun shining over the Cornish 
sea, and hear a laughing voice proclaiming the 
route for the day. 

Neither of them spoke for some moments. He 
drove slowly and cautiously for fear of skidding, 
and she made no effort at attracting his attention. 


276 


The Iron Stair 


Chaffey was leading. Her eyes were on his car, 
and the muffled figure of her father. 

Aubrey glanced at her as they reached the open 
road which ran through the centre of the moor. 
‘‘You’ve nothing now to fear, Renee,” he said. 
“The worst’s over.” 

She drew a deep breath. “I can’t feel safe 
while he’s there. The very likeness that helped 
us is now a danger.” 

“But I’ve warned him. He won’t run any 
risks. It’s wonderful how things have happened.” 

“You’ve heard nothing from — up there?” 

He shook his head. “These things don’t get 
into the papers. They’re kept dark for fear of 
blame. Ah, my dear, try and put it out of your 
mind, and think only of yourself. Why not go to 
Madame Gascoigne for a time, after you leave 
your father?” 

She shook her head. “No. She’d talk and 
question, and I’d have to pretend he was — alive. 
If I could only go away where no one knew, where 
I’d never hear his name.” 

“You must have patience. That day will 
come, but not just at once. Your father has no 
suspicion?” 

“I’m sure he hasn’t. Why should he?” 

“One fears everything, just at first. In cool 
blood we could never have brought about this 
project. It’s only on looking back one realizes 
what’s happened, and its daring.” 

“It was — daring. Even now, when I wake 


Whether Laws be Right 277 

from sleep, I can’t realize what’s happened. That’s 
why I don’t want to face Madame Gascoigne. I 
couldn’t pretend — always. She’s known me all 
my life; she’d guess there was something wrong. 
Besides at Weymouth I should be reminded of 
you, and all that lovely time together. I — I 
couldn’t bear it!” 

He set his teeth and said nothing. It was no 
time for speech ; such speech as burnt his heart like 
a hidden flame, and which her grief tempted into 
burning utterance. 

She spoke no more till the pretty market town 
came into sight. Then she said: “I don’t know 
when I am to see you again. Will you write?” 

“If there’s anything to tell,” he said. “But, if 
all goes smoothly, there’s no need. Geoffrey will 
be sending letters of course?” 

She drew up her head with the little proud 
gesture he knew. 

“I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have asked. 
Of course there’s no need for you to write. You’ll 
be glad enough to get rid of us all. We’ve only 
brought you trouble and annoyance.” 

“Renee!” 

“Please understand I don’t want to trouble you 
in the future in any way. I’m more sorry than 
I can tell that you ever came to Thrushelcombe. 
I suppose that was my fault too, like everything 
else. Understand though, that if ever anything 
of this comes out, I will take ah the blame on my- 
self. I’ll deny that you had anything to do with it. 


278 


The Iron Stair 


There’s always the warder’s daughter to back me 
up, and my car was well-known, and George ” 

“You’re a foolish Httle girl, Renee! You don’t 
know what you’re talking about!” 

“I know perfectly well, Mr. Derringham,” she 
said coldly. 

The whistle of the train was a signal that 
stopped further conversation. The next few 
moments were hurried and confused; Andrew 
Jessop being a fussy traveller, and convinced that 
his only safeguard was to ask the same question of 
every railway official some dozen times over. He 
shook hands with Aubrey, and thanked him for 
what he called “the lift.” It had been pleasanter 
than a musty jolting fly. Renee gave her hand, 
but said nothing, even when he whispered remorse- 
fully — “I’ll write — soon.” 

She sank back in her comer, the signal was 
given, and the puffing noisy little train bore its 
freight off and away to the life of towns and cities 
beyond this desolate moor. 

Aubrey Derringham watched it out of sight. 
It was bearing away the only joy of his changed 
life. With her seemed to go all of interest that 
kept him here, chained to dull inactive days and 
lonely nights. And once again they had parted 
in anger. She was hurt and offended, as on 
that night at Weymouth, when she had pro- 
claimed him another “disillusion.” This time 
it was not altogether his fault. He foresaw a 
danger of which she was imconscious. He knew 


279 


Whether Laws be Right 

to what he had been drifting, and as he compared 
those later happenings with previous incidents 
the lights and shadows showed up with startling 
distinctness. 

Chaffey’s voice roused him at last. He had 
been wondering why on earth his master remained 
on that cold draughty platform, staring after a 
departing train. 

^‘Beg pardon, sir. I suppose we each take a 
car? Am I to have Mrs. Gale’s, or yours?” 

Aubrey started. “Oh . . . yes, of course, we 
must get back! I’ll drive Ren — , I mean Mrs. 
Gale’s. You can take mine to the hotel.” 

“We’re not going home then, sir?” 

“Home?” 

“To Thrushelcombe, I meant, sir. The house 
has been left to itself a pretty fair time.” 

“We’ll go back — tomorrow,” said Aubrey. 

“Then oughtn’t I to get there tonight, sir; to 
light fires and air the place?” 

Aubrey looked at him vacantly; his thoughts 
had been far away. What had she meant when 
she said that she couldn’t bear to go back to Wey- 
mouth, because it would remind her of — him? 


CHAPTER XXIII 


“life’s iron chain” 

Aubrey turned and left the platform in the same 
vague undecided manner. Chaffey looked at 
him wonderingly. All this trouble and bother 
was beginning to affect him. There ought to be 
an end to it now. 

He got into Aubrey’s car, and watched him 
start the engine and get into the one that Renee 
had so often occupied. Something in the way his 
master looked at the wheel, and touched the rugs, 
startled the man. An uneasy suspicion darted 
into his mind. 

“Good Lord! ... is that what it means?” he 
thought. Then the little car glided off ahead of 
him. He followed, a new expression in his watchful 
eyes. 

There seemed to be no end to the complications 
arising out of that Forgery Case. 

Aubrey drove up to the house, and got out. 
Renee kept her car in a disused coach house at 
“The Poor John.” He wanted to tell Geoffrey 
that, and also ask if he would like to learn how to 
drive it. 


280 


Life’s Iron Chain 


281 


He found him in the parlour crouched over the 
fire. His whole aspect listless and dispirited. 

“They’re safely off,’’ said Aubrey. “It’s a 
good thing this has been arranged. Now — about 
yourself? We have to remember that you and 
I were not the best of friends. It was Renee I 
knew. If I stayed on here it might look suspicious. 
So I’m going back to the house. Then, there’s 
the car. You’ll have to learn to drive it. Perhaps 
Chaffey ’’ 

The boy lifted his head wearily. “What a lot 
of trouble I’m giving you, and I’m not worth it. 
It was playing the fool brought me into this scrape. 
Having only myself to blame I should have tried 
to bear it. But I seem to have lost my head, and 
my courage too.’’ 

“You mustn’t do that. A great deal depends 
on the next month.” 

“Month? Alone here! I’m supposed to be 
a drunkard, and unpopular. I can’t even salve 
my conscience by doing a little good; playing my 
part, as I could play it.” 

“Do you mean ? 

“I mean I’d like to visit those queer vil- 
lagers. Have some sort of straight talk with 
them. Give a helping hand where it was needed. 
Instead I must slink about like a cur afraid 
even of that tumble-down old church, that dod- 
dering sexton!” 

“Yes, but my dear boy, remember you’ve burned 
your boats. You mustn’t look back. If you wish 


282 


The Iron Stair 


to play at parish priest, there’s nothing against it. 
They may think your wife has converted you. 
She’s a prime favourite here.” 

“They’re more likely to think I’ve driven her 
away.” 

“I suppose your uncle never suspected any- 
thing?” 

“Never. He was just the same as he’d always 
been. Perhaps he expected a little more outward 
show of connubial felicity, but Renee’s health 
and grief quite accounted for — the difference.” 

“She’s gone through a terrible time,” said 
Aubrey gravely. “I know that.” 

“He — George wasn’t violent — to her?” ques- 
tioned the boy fiercely. 

“She wouldn’t say. But I often feared, espe- 
cially after her suspicions were aroused as to his 
guilt.” 

“Ah!” Geoffrey drew a quick breath, his hand 
clutched the arm of the chair. “Tell me about 
that; she never would.” 

“I think he must have let something out when 
— ^well, when he didn’t know what he was saying. 
After that, she was desperate about releasing you. 
My only fear was that she’d betray herself and 
that suspicion would light on her.” 

“Did the search party ever come here?” 

“Only once, and fortunately George was away. 
No one saw him, and Renee could prove that 
neither she nor her car had been on the road that 
day of the — escape.” 


Life’s Iron Chain 


283 


^^It’s still a sort of nightmare. I don’t know 
how I did it.” 

He sprang up and began to pace the room. 
“Three days; surely nothing could come out now? 
The enquiries must be over, and he’s buried as I 
should have been, if I’d stayed in that awful 
place.” 

“I wish you could forget all that.” 

“Forget it! I never can. Who could forget 
the maddening indignities put upon one! The 
stripping in a cold stony corridor before brutal 
officials, pulling, peering, questioning, as if your 
body was a bit of mechanism. The taking of 
finger impressions, the marking of every spot or 
blemish. The misery of a lonely cell, the filthy 
food, the vile company ; the knowledge that you’re 
watched and spied on, of no more account than 
the cog in a wheel which helps to keep the ma- 
chinery going. The tasks, the harsh rules, the 
callous faces, and a smug-faced chaplain telling 
you of God’s mercy and Christ’s atonement every 
Sunday, by way of showing up the contrasts of 
the week ! I know lots of them took it philosophi- 
cally, but I couldn’t. I was degraded in my own 
sight, and the iron branded my soul. It seared 
out all the good that had ever been there. I could 
have murdered that warder with absolute joy 
in the stripping a brute of the power to brutalize 
another living soul, as mine had been brutalized! 
I often thought I’d try. He knew I hated him, 
and he made good use of the knowledge.” 


284 


The Iron Stair 


“It was unwise to make an enemy,” said Au- 
brey. “Supposing there was something about 
George that did not tally with the description of 
yourself? Supposing that man ever met you?'" 

“I’m always thinking that. My only hope is 
that he’d be satisfied with getting his prisoner 
back. We’re like enough to pass for each other. 
There’d be no one to raise a question.” 

“What about the inquest?” 

“The authorities would keep that dark. The 
papers announced that the missing man had been 
discovered. To all intents and purposes he had. 
He’d died from exposure and exhaustion. The 
doctor would only make a perfunctory examina- 
tion. They’d be glad enough to hush it up to 
prove what they always maintain that no one has 
ever managed an escape from Dartmoor, though 
many have attempted it.” 

“Fate has played into our hands, ” said Aubrey. 
“ But for your likeness to George, and his to you, 
we could never have done it.” 

“I’ve often wondered,” said Geoffrey suddenly, 
“whether he — George — suspected I was hiding 
somewhere near. Whether he thought that 
Renee kn^w — something.” 

“She says he never mentioned your name. It 
may be that he was glad you had got off. He 
knew that you were undergoing an unmerited 
punishment.” 

“Of course he knew that. It was preying on 
his mind, driving him to one sort of desperation. 


Life’s Iron Chain 


285 


as it drove me to another. I had been a young 
light-hearted fool when this blow crushed all the 
youth and freedom of life out of me. You say 
I look young still? God knows I don’t feel it!” 

“Time is your best cure, Geoffrey. Time heals 
all, consoles all. Don’t give yourself leisure for 
thought. Read, work, do things. Perhaps the 
car will bring you some consolation. It did to 
Renee. I leave it to you and Chaffey. He’ll 
show you all about it.” 

He held out his hand. Geoffrey seized it, and 
held it in both of his. 

“What a thundering good chap you are, Derring- 
ham! God knows what I’d have done but for 
you, and Renee says the same.” 

“You mustn’t take it all too seriously,” said 
Aubrey. “I’ve only tried to help you as you’ve 
helped me. I was a useless idler on the highway 
of Life, when one day I walked into a courtroom, 
and realized what a fierce tragic thing life could 
be. After that — I couldn’t idle away hours and 
opportunities, and Fate sent me a mission.” 

He released his hand and laid it on the boy’s 
shoulder; looking down at the tragic young eyes. 

“To all intents and purposes I’ve done a wrong 
thing,” he said. “But before God, Geoffrey 
Gale, I feel it’s a right one! Anyhow, I don’t 
regret it, neither must you. After all, human 
justice isn’t infallible. It plays up to a theory 
for a given purpose. Sometimes the theory 
doesn’t fit the purpose. Here was an instance. 


286 


The Iron Stair 


You had committed no crime, why should you 
be treated as a criminal? Again, suffering that is 
merited may be wholesome, but unmerited suffer- 
ing turns men into relentless savages, for the time. 
IVe seen it, youVe known it. Viewing your case 
from a psychological standpoint I hold you justified 
even as I hold myself. There’s only one point 
unsettled — ” He dropped his hand. “Have you 
any direct proof that your brother committed the 
crime for which he allowed you to suffer? In 
case of any future trouble we ought to have that 
cleared up.” 

Geoffrey shook his head. “ I’ve no direct proof, 
as yet. But there are all his papers and docu- 
ments to look through. I might find something.” 

^ ‘ Are they — here ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, so Renee said. In an old bureau in my 
room. It used to be his room.” 

“Well, I should look them through; that’s to 
say, if Renee doesn’t object.” 

“She gave me the keys last night,” he said. 

“That looks as if you were to be her deputy.” 

“Everything in that room is as he brought it 
from home, so she told me. His books, and 
clothes, and trunks, and that old bureau. He 
always kept letters and papers there.” 

“An unwise thing to do. But you wanted some 
employment. Here it is, ready made. And now, 
I must really be off.” 

“You — couldn’t look in again tonight, I sup- 
pose?” faltered Geoffrey. “I shall be alone, and 


Life’s Iron Chain 287 

I hate to be alone! Every sound, every footstep 
is like a threat of pursuit!” 

^‘But there can be no pursuit now. You must 
pluck up courage and learn to rely upon yourself. 
I’d come again, of course, only, as I told 3^ou, he 
and I were never friends. It will excite comment, 
and that must be avoided at any cost.” 

^‘I know you’re right,” said the boy. ^‘I’ll do 
my best.” 

He followed him out into the little hall, and 
opened the door. He watched him get into the 
car and drive down the narrow street. Then he 
went back to the lonely house, and to the consola- 
tion that it at least meant safety, and that he 
had not to keep up any more false pretences so 
far as Renee was concerned. 

That evening when Ann Whyddon brought in 
his tea, she informed him that she was going 
home to sleep every night while “the missus” was 
away. 

“Mother ses I be a vartuous maid, an’ it 
baint vitty to bide ’ere alone with a man, even ef 
’e be a clargyman. So I’ll tidy up th’ kitchen, 
sir, an’ go ’ome.” 

“All right, you can go,” said Geoffrey, recalled 
again to his brother’s unenviable reputation. Evi- 
dently there had been scenes here, and the girl 
was not desirous of witnessing one played for her 
sole benefit. No doubt she pictured him revelling 
in a solitary debauch tonight. His wife had 


288 


The Iron Stair 


gone, so had the visitor. There was no restraining 
influence to keep him in check. 

The boy smiled somewhat bitterly as the door 
closed. Had be been inclined to deaden thought, 
or drown his sorrow and fears, there was a side- 
board of temptation in the room. Fortunately 
for himself excesses in that line made no appeal. 
Besides he had decided upon an occupation for 
tonight. He would open that old bureau of his 
brother’s, and search through its contents for 
some proof of that innocence he had always avowed 
and of which George had been fully conscious. 

With the whole evening before him, Geoffrey 
Gale yet postponed that self-given task from mo- 
ment to moment, and hour to hour. The solitude 
of the house oppressed his nerves, and every creak 
in the wainscot, or crack of burning log, set them 
jangling like wires unstrung. From time to time 
he looked around as if doubtful that it could be 
himself alone here in George Gale’s house, attired 
in George Gale’s habit? Events had marched so 
quickly, situation after situation had been so 
forced upon his acceptance, that his memory only 
held confused pictures of the actual facts. Had 
he known of what this masquerade would mean he 
felt he could never have gone through with it, but 
its developments had been gradual, brought about 
by a sequence of coincidences that no plotting or 
planning could have suggested. 

The very change in his uncle had rendered 


Life's Iron Chain 


289 


deception easy, for old Jessop harassed and dis- 
tressed by the tragedy of the prisoner’s escape 
was no longer the stern exacting accuser who had 
arraigned and brought him to justice. Against 
these things he set his own sufferings, and the 
memory of those prison days. 

Again he felt the nerve-shock of clanging doors, 
of rattling keys, heard the rough voices and harsh 
commands of those to whom innocence or guilt 
made no difference seeing that a gaol bird was 
only a victim of the laws they were bound to 
enforce. Again he saw the sullen face of that 
one man he had instinctively hated, and had once 
fiercely insulted in a moment of uncontrollable 
passion. Would he remember him if by any 
chance they met? 

He rose and looked at himself in the small 
oval chimney glass. How pale he was, and how 
terrified his eyes still looked. Would they ever 
lose that strained expression; that sense of covert 
fear? Would he ever be able to rise above the 
sense of deception; to take his place in life, and 
look men in the face unflinchingly? 

He nerved himself again to that task he had 
resolved to accomplish. He would go through 
with it now — at last. 

He lit the candle left for him on the sideboard, 
and went up the creaking wooden stairs to that 
room above. He had hated to use it, even for that 
one night. It seemed haunted by the man in whose 
place he stood. Now that Renee had left, he had 


19 


290 


The Iron Stair 


determined to use her room, and had taken pos- 
session of it that afternoon, and ordered Ann 
Whyddon to light the fire before she left. 

He put his candle down on the dressing-table, 
and looked at the old oak bureau. It stood in a 
corner of the room, closed and locked. He took 
out the keys Renee had given him, and tried them 
in the lock of the closed flap. One fitted, and he 
turned down the ledge, and looked at the row of 
pigeonholes filled with papers, letters, memoranda 
of all sorts; things of school and college days; one 
or two pocket diaries. He remembered that 
George had always been in the habit of noting 
engagements, duties, appointments. He looked 
at the dates of the diaries. One was of the present 
time, the others ran back to three or four years 
previously. He put them aside. Then took out 
the letters and the neatly docketed and tied papers. 

There were three drawers below to be examined, 
but he felt he had material enough for the present. 
He put them all together, and closed the bureau 
and locked it again. Then he took the papers into 
the room opposite, and stood a moment regarding 
it as one regards a holy place. It spoke of her in 
every simple detail that made it so purely feminine. 
In the white hangings, and the toilet trifles on the 
dressing-table, the chintz-covered chair by the 
fire, the half -open cupboard where hung a dress or 
petticoat that she had worn. A bright fire blazed 
in the grate. The room spoke to him, like herself, 
offering the comfort and rest he had found no- 


Life’s Iron Chain 


291 


where in this house. He went in and laid the 
papers and the diaries down on a small table by 
the fire. 

“I’ll read them here,” he said softly. “He 
doesn’t seem to haunt this room, like the others.” 

Then he went down to put out the lamp and 
lock the doors ; a memory of that dead man echoing 
in every grating sound. 

The curtains were drawn, the candles lit. An 
atmosphere of peace reigned in the quiet room. 
Before the fire Geoffrey Gale sat and read the 
extracts in those diaries. Queer disjointed frag- 
ments, notes of college exploits, of friendships 
and enmities, of home incidents. Underlying an 
occasional entry hashed a spark of jealousy; an 
ever constant fear, dating from boyhood, that 
Renee preferred Geoffrey to himself. Here and 
there initials pointed to a growing dislike of his 
brother. “That hateful G.” “That insufferable 
young idiot.” “Hot-headed fool,” and similar 
complimentary remarks. Here and there too 
came hints of escapade or trouble of his own. 
Then a series of blanks. Then rough brief hints 
of coming discovery, followed by notes of a dis- 
cussion with his uncle. Then a description of the 
trial; carefully worded, ending with the sentence, 
and a brief — “Thank God, that's over!” 

Thank God ! 

Geoffrey flung the book on the floor in a spasm 
of rage and indignation. He could say that! 


292 


The Iron Stair 


Write that, knowing that the accusation was false, 
the evidence false, the verdict unjustified, the 
sentence — undeserved ! 

He could thank God for that martyrdom, the 
horrors and indignities which had broken health 
and nerve and fortitude! He could thank God! 
why? Because it left the field free for himself. 
Because Geoffrey was safel}’’ out of the way. 
Because he could claim Renee, cold, passive, 

' reluctant, for his wife. 

After a stormy moment or two, he again lifted 
the book, and went on with it, turning the pages 
with rapid fingers. It seemed that whatever George 
had done it had brought no satisfaction. No 
single record breathed happiness, or dignified his 
married life with anything save brief hints of 
wasted passion, baffled ardour, cold tolerance 
that was driving him to a drunkard's consolation. 
He had sinned, and the fruits of sin were bitter. 
His conscience was a hell, and in the pure reproach- 
ful look of his young wife's eyes he daily read his 
own condemnation. 

Geoffrey hurried on. He reached the last 
records of this last month. They were blotted, 
feverish, scarce readable, but one and all betrayed 
the obsession of an idea. Geoffrey had escaped. 
Geoffrey might come here one day. Geoffrey 
knew, and would murder him in his rage at what 
had been done. The tortured spirit went in fear 
of every chance meeting; every received letter, 
every newspaper paragraph. No wonder he had 


Life’s Iron Chain 


293 


sought oblivion in drink, nor dared to show himself 
beyond his parish boundaries till after nightfall. 

Geoffrey closed the last diary with a feeling of 
pity. A tortured soul had faced him, its despair 
outweighing his own a thousand times, for it 
was self -wrought, the fruit of evil thought and 
evil deeds. 

What stood against himself was but the folly 
of youth; its brief sins, its long repentance. He 
looked at the letters. Some were in his own 
writing; some were from his uncle, some from 
Renee. 

“I won^t read them,” he thought. “I know 
as much as I shall ever know. It’s not likely 
that he’d have left any proof of his own misdoings. 
I don’t suppose these incoherent ravings would 
mean anything to any one but myself. Still, I’d 
better keep them. Derringham might like to 
see them.” 

He threw the letters in the fire, and watched 
them blaze and flutter into black fragments. Then 
he rose, and threw himself on his knees by Renee’s 
bed, and for the first time since all this trouble and 
terror had fallen upon his life — Geoffrey Gale 
prayed. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


“ THE PRISON AND ITS PREY 

Ren^:e the girl was slowly changing into Renee 
the woman. Waking, so it seemed, from the 
sleep of indifference to life’s fuller meaning. 

In her old home, surrounded by associations of 
her girlhood, she wondered how she could ever 
have been persuaded into that mockery of union 
which had meant marriage. She saw herself 
outraged, tortured, wounded, and distraught. 
Saw illusion after illusion stripped and mocked 
at. Saw all the horrors of a false position, and 
watched, as it were, the whole edifice of domesticity 
tumbling into wreck and ruin around her. 

And she could say nothing. She must say 
nothing — now. Her father’s questioning was an 
added torture for he had never met the George 
that she knew. How could he believe ill of that 
other George, under whose roof he had spent three 
days and nights of renewed intimacy; renewed 
favouritism? 

Always in his eyes it was George who had stood 
for all the virtues, and Geoffrey for all the sins. 
So they stood still, though the tragic fate of the 
294 


295 


The Prison and its Prey 

sinner had in some measure softened hostility, and 
aroused compassion. The harping on one or 
other of these strings became intolerable to Renee. 
In desperation she kept her room, and declared 
herself too ill and upset for any long talks. The 
family doctor agreed with her. He had known 
them all for long, and knew of their trouble of the 
previous year. He had known Renee as a girl. 
He had seen her married, a pale, too serious bride, 
yet as a clergyman’s wife that was not surprising. 
But this nerve-shattered sorrowful creature who 
had returned to her home bore no likeness to either 
the radiant girl, or the serious young bride. He 
was appalled at the change. He could only 
counsel entire rest, and the exclusion of anything 
likely to excite or disturb her. 

The New Year came and passed, and was rung 
in hopefully to all ears but hers, or so she thought 
in sorrow’s exclusiveness of sorrow. The cold 
bleak days lapsed into cold empty weeks. Geof- 
frey wrote of course. His handwriting and 
George’s were as alike as their personal appearance, 
and her father would bring the letters to her with 
a remark on husbandly attentions, and a hope that 
they would cheer her up. Geoffrey wrote stiffly 
and coldly. He dared not let himself go. He 
told her of his daily life, of Ann’s guarded ‘‘var- 
tue” ; of his empty church, and its useless services. 
Of his terror that something in the shape of wed- 
ding or funeral might lay formal demand upon 
him. Of Aubrey Derringham’s return to Thrushel- 


296 


The Iron Stair 


combe, and Chaffey’s instructions in motor driving. 

But he said nothing of his horror of that lonely 
house, of the long dreary days, the long haunted 
nights. Neither did he say anything of those 
diaries, or of a discovered cheque book, in which 
George seemed to have practised signatures and 
figures, with extraordinary ability. It had been 
thrust into a secret aperture of the bureau. Only 
by the merest chance had Geoffrey discovered it. 
A hundred times might that receptacle have been 
searched and examined and no one would have 
noticed that little fitted panel. Possibly George 
had thrust this book into the hollow behind it, 
and forgotten all about the fact. Or again possibly 
he might have kept it as incriminating Geoffrey, for 
the writing was curiously like his own. 

Evidently this was the missing cheque book 
spoken of at the trial. It showed the cunning 
and the patience of the forger in every detail. 
Also it showed how much skill had been wasted, 
for after all it was not Andrew Jessop’s signature 
that had been forged, only the figures of the cheque 
and their written counterpart. 

But what use to tell Renee all this. Geoffrey 
locked away the diaries and that cheque book in a 
leather portfolio he had discovered. They were 
useless now. The extraordinary resemblance of 
the two handwritings, the absence of George 
Gale’s name as identification was only another 
link of confusion; it could do nothing towards 
establishing a crime, or proving an error of law. 


The Prison and its Prey 297 

Cold bitter weather and heavy snow-storms 
made January a month to remember. Renee 
seemed to grow paler and thinner every day, and 
her father became seriously alarmed. The doctor 
spoke of a warmer climate, south of France, or 
south of England. Could she not go there? This 
bleak midland air was quite unsuited to her. Her 
father suggested Weymouth and Madame Gas- 
coigne, but she refused. If she went anywhere it 
would be Cornwall; to a little sheltered corner of 
the coast where the sun shone, and the air was soft 
and healthful. She remembered such a place, 
and its quaint inn and fishers’ cottages. It was 
near enough to Penzance to be assured of all 
necessary requirements. Let her go there, and 
let her go alone ! 

Old Jessop was astonished at the earnestness 
of the request. He consulted the doctor, and by his 
advice wrote privately to Madame Gascoigne for 
help in this dilemma. The old French lady re- 
plied by return of post, putting herself at their 
disposal, ready to come to her chere petite at 
any moment, if she desired. 

Renee was informed that she might go to Corn- 
wall, if she chose, but not unaccompanied. And 
when she heard of the old French lady’s offer she 
gave in. 

Her father wrote to Geoffrey, and told him of 
the arrangement, lamenting the circumstances 
and the distance, but cheering him with the hope 
that his wife’s health would improve, and that in 


298 


The Iron Stair 


a month or two she would be able to retiim to 
Dartmoor. 

Geoffrey read the letter with a sense of relief. 
A month or two might mean the end of his own 
ordeal. Already he had told the Rector that 
the place did not suit “Mrs. Gale,” and that he 
must throw up the curacy. His next trouble was 
concerned with the formalities that would enable 
him to resume an independent position. How 
was that to be done? He had no desire to be 
interviewed by a Bishop; give reason for a change 
of opinion that meant resigning his position in the 
church. He was no theological student. He 
could not argue, or explain, or seek explanation. 
He could only say he must resign, hoping to avoid 
unnecessary lies. 

The impassable roads had made it impossible 
for him to get to Thrushelcombe. Chaff ey had 
returned before the heavy snow-storm had cut off 
communication, and Geoffrey had remained shut 
up in the dreary little village, and the lonely house ; 
trying to steady his nerves and bear his solitude 
as best he could. 

Not a word had reached them from Princetown. 
They could only suppose there had been no doubt 
raised as to identification. The dead man was 
accepted as Geoffrey Gale, Convict 96, and as 
such had been buried and registered. 

As the days passed into weeks, Geoffrey began to 
feel safer. The perfunctory duties of his Sundays 
made no claim on his conscience for scarce a soul 


The Prison and its Prey 299 


came to hear him preach, and his efforts with the 
wheezy harmonium were only a source of amaze- 
ment to the ancient sexton and his more ancient 
wife. As for the old Rector, he slept and drank, 
and drank and slept through the dreary winter 
days, forgetful of everything except creature com- 
forts; indifferent alike to his parish or his curate. 

When Geoffrey suggested that he should seek 
another helper he only gave an asthmatic chuckle, 
and promised to “think about it.” It seemed 
to Geoffrey that the thought would never resolve 
itself into action, and that if he was to have a 
substitute he must provide one himself. All this 
made him the more eager to see Aubrey Derring- 
ham, and ask his advice. He knew nothing of 
the discovery in the bureau. They had not met 
since Renee left. Sometimes Geoffrey wondered 
uneasily whether anything had happened? whether 
Aubrey had gone to London? But surely if that 
were so, he would have written. There was 
nothing for it but patience, and the writing of long 
letters to Renee, which were never sent when 
written, for fear of adding to her distress, or falling 
into her father’s hands. 

When he heard of the Cornish project, and was 
asked to give his consent to it, he felt the relief 
of coming freedom. Once he got away from here 
he resolved to go abroad. South America for 
choice. If Renee wished to accompany him they 
could travel as brother and sister. If she preferred 
remaining in England some excuse of health, or 


300 


The Iron Stair 


difference of opinion, would have, to satisfy her 
father. But, as he thought and planned, the 
longing to see Aubrey became more and more 
intolerable. He looked at the steely clouds, and 
the melting snow, and cursed the fate that kept 
them apart. 

Inactivity was torture in his present frame of 
mind, for it showed him only too clearly how help- 
less he was, and tried the stoicism of hard- won 
fortitude to the uttermost. But an end comes to 
all things, and one day the sun shone, and the snow 
melted, and a message reached him from Aubrey 
Derringham. If the roads were passable next 
day would Geoffrey come to Two Bridges? They 
could lunch together and discuss matters. Geof- 
frey prayed devoutly that the roads would be at 
least — fordable. One could hope for nothing 
better; but waterproof boots were at hand, part 
of George’s fishing equipment, and the sun rose 
again in a clear sky, and he set forth. 

The two young men held a long and serious 
discussion. 

Both had had time and opportunity to think 
out the whole matter, and Aubrey Derringham 
was ready with projects more or less feasible. 
He had risked the meeting here, and watched 
keenly the faces of landlord and waiters, all of 
whom had seen George Gale many times. They 
were absolutely unsuspicious. Aubrey had taken 
care that the meeting should have only the appear- 


The Prison and its Prey 301 

ance of accident. Neither he nor Geoffrey showed 
any special cordiality. The conversation was 
kept to every day topics, and not till they sat over 
coffee and cigarettes in the deserted lounge was 
the real object of their meeting broached. 

Geoffrey hurriedly related what he had heard 
from Renee. There was no question now of her 
returning here. He had sent in a formal resigna- 
tion of his curacy. He was to sell up the furniture 
and effects by Renee’s desire, and then leave the 
place for ever. He told Aubrey of his difficulties 
respecting formal resignation of clerical orders. 
Derringham promised to enquire into that. 

“I am leaving for London tomorrow,” he 
said. “That’s why I came here. I shall stop 
the night, and take the first train from Moreton. 
Chaffey remains a week or two longer. Then he 
will shut up Thrushelcombe and join me.” 

“Are you giving up the house?” asked Geoffrey. 

“No. That might look suspicious. I keep it 
on. It will serve as a retreat for Chaffey, or I can 
let it in the summer, for the fishing.” 

“You did not take it for that reason? I’ve 
often wondered ” 

“I took it,” said Aubrey coldly, “for a whim. 
I was motoring over the moor and had a fancy 
to see more of it. The place was to let, and I put 
Chaffey in, and came when the fancy took me.” 

“Pray don’t think I’m impertinent,” said 
Geoffrey flushing hotly. “But it was such a queer 
out-of-the-way place j I couldn’t help wondering. 


302 


The Iron Stair 


And something Renee said made me curious. 
Surely, surely you didn’t do it for my sake, because 
you knew that she was planning my escape?” 

^T’m afraid I did,” said Aubrey, with a sudden 
smile. “Quixotic, wasn’t it? Nevermind. I’ve 
done one good deed in my life, at least in my 
opinion, and I suppose in yours? Now that’s 
enough. Y ou haven’t told me yet of any discovery 
among those papers. ” 

Then Geoffrey related the incident of the secret 
drawer, the cheque book, the diaries. “None of 
these things prove anything,” he said. “A third 
person might not, in fact would not, be able to 
say whether the writing was mine, or his. It was 
our misfortune to be alike in so much, and different 
in so little.” 

“Still I should like to see them,” said Aubrey. 
“There are two people whom I should like to 
convince of your innocence. Whom I mean to 
convince, if I can. One is your uncle, Andrew 
Jessop. The other ” 

He paused, and looked at the flushed face and 
eager eyes. 

“The other?” 

“You’d never guess, my boy. It is your 
counsel. The man who defended you — Joshua 
Myers.” 

All the colour went out of the boyish face. 
That name brought back the tragedy of his life. 
The awful moments in the court house, the ques- 


303 


The Prison and its Prey 

tions and accusations, the pitiless condemnation 
that had been his fate. 

“For God’s sake, Derringham, don’t rake that 
up again!” he implored. “If you spoke to Myers 
he’d suspect a reason. I suppose he knows of the 
escape.” 

“No doubt, and of the discovery. But what of 
that? These documents may have been found by 
Ren6e.” 

“But you forget who I am. Is it likely she 
would betray her — husband?” 

“There will be no question of betraying you, 
Geoffrey. Have no fear. I shall not move in the 
matter until it is perfectly safe. And for your 
own satisfaction let me tell you that Myers has 
always believed in your innocence.” 

“But he would not feel justified in concealing 
my escape. You couldn’t expect it.” 

“I’m not going to tell him of that, till the term 
of your sentence has expired. There’ d be no use 
then in raking up the story. You can’t be tried 
again. Y our death has been accepted and notified. ’ ’ 

“There’s more than a year to run,” faltered 
Geoffrey. “If I could get away, out of England, 
I’d feel safe. But here — I feel there’s danger in 
every curious eye that looks at me.” 

“You must try and get over that.” 

Aubrey rose. “I’ll walk back with you,” he 
said. “The road on this side is better than mine.” 

“Will you ? I’ll be delighted ! ’ ’ Geoffrey sprang 
to his feet, and Aubrey summoned a waiter, and 


304 


The Iron Stair 


told him to bring their overcoats and hats. To- 
gether the two walked out of the porch and past 
the window of the bar. Geoffrey Gale was on the 
inner side and glanced casually into the room, 
where three men were standing and drinking. His 
wide soft hat was slightly pushed back; his face 
was distinctly visible. One of the men caught 
sight of it, and hastily put down his tankard, and 
rushed to the door. He stood there a moment 
gazing after the two figures, then went slowly back. 

“Who’s the young parson?” he enquired of the 
barman . ‘ ‘ Living anywhere hereabouts ? ’ ’ 

“Parson? D’you mean the young un as *elps 
the Rector up to Shapsdown?” 

“He was here. He’s just gone past.” 

“That be the curate. ’E ain’t been ’ere for 
long ’nough. Used to come fishin’ summer time, 
now and again.” 

“Know his name?” 

“Never ’eard on’t. Landlord knows he I’ve 
no doubt.” 

The man asked no more questions, but slowly 
emptied his tankard and went out and into the 
hotel porch. A waiter demanded his business. 

“Is there a gentleman staying here — a clergy- 
man sort o’ chap?” he enquired. 

“The clergyman’s not staying,” said the waiter. 
“The other gent is, only for the night. He goes 
to London tomorrow.” 

“D’ye happen to know the name o’ the clergy- 
man? I seem to know his face.” 


The Prison and its Prey 305 

‘^He’s the Reverend Mr. Gale; lives at Shaps- 
down Rectory.” 

‘^Gale! Well, that’s queer!” 

“D’ye mean the name, or the gent? He’s all 
right when he’s not too free with the drink. Used 
to run a pretty score here, he did.” 

“You know him then? You’re quite sure he 
w Mr.— Gale?” 

“As sure as I know myself.” 

“It’s queer,” repeated the man. “Well, good 
afternoon, I must be getting back.” 

The waiter watched him as he got into the little 
trap, in which he had driven from Princetown. 
He wondered why he had been so curious. 
There was nothing in his appearance to connect 
him with the Great Palace of the Duchy set in 
the midst of these moorland wastes, for even 
officialdom can at times have its “day off,” and 
divest itself of state liveries. Yet the man was 
the surly warder of whom Geoffrey Gale had such 
a horror; the man, whom of all connected with 
his prison life, he most feared and hated. 

Driving over the steep road, and through melt- 
ing snow and running water, the man puzzled 
himself over that likeness. 

The face that he had seen passing the window 
in the pale glow of the wintry sunlight was the 
face that had so often flashed defiance, and open 
hatred to his own. The figure in its clerical garb 
was in every respect of height and build the figure 


20 


3o6 


The Iron Stair 


of that escaped prisoner. How was such a like- 
ness possible? The more he thought the deeper 
grew his perplexity. 

He ground his teeth with a sudden vicious snap. 
^‘By God — if he’s tricked me, I’ll make him pay 
for it! I swear I will! It could have been done 
that way — no other ! And p’raps that cool insolent 
Londoner has had a finger in the pie after all. The 
question is how on earth are we going to explain 
that we’ve got hold of the wrong man! The 
Guv’nor would never believe me, no, nor any of 
the authorities ! Catch them acknowledge a 
mistake once it’s made. The only thing they’d 
do would be to watch my gentleman in future. 
I don’t know that I hadn’t best keep this to my- 
self. But I can try frightening that young fool up 
at Shapsdown. He was always a bit of a coward. 
And the Londoner, he’d look queer, I’m thinking, if 
we could bring him in ‘accessory after the fact.’ 
Wonder if I could work this out? There’s money 
in it. An income for life — properly worked!” 


CHAPTER XXV 


“ A DEBT TO PAY ” 

The mild days of February seemed to promise 
atonement for previous stress and storm. There 
was a hint of blue in the sky, of warmth in the sun. 
The frozen streams trickled a merry release, and 
the highways of the great moor were again passable. 

Geoffrey Gale’s fears grew less with each de- 
parting day. He drove his little car along 
the unfrequented roads, and explored queer old 
tumble-down villages, and tried to hope that life 
might soon fulfil itself in fresh interests and occu- 
pations. 

Renee wrote him fully and frankly from her 
Cornish retreat. Aubrey Derringham was back 
in London investigating the necessary formalities 
of resignation of office. Geoffrey had grown used 
to the lonely house, and to Ann Whyddon’s vir- 
tuous ministrations. He read service in the church 
to a scattered congregation of three to six parish- 
ioners, and with every such reading found his task 
easier. It was a task bound to grow mechanical, 
even for those whose duty it was to perform it. 
There were times when Geoffrey blessed the me- 
307 


3o8 


The Iron Stair 


chanical effort for all it brought of consolation. It 
would not be needed much longer. Aubrey hoped 
a month, or less, might bring release, and set him 
free to follow his own inclinations. 

One sunny- afternoon he fetched the car from 
its queer garage, and thought he would run over 
to Thrushelcombe. He knew that Chaffey was 
shortly to leave the house and rejoin his master in 
London. Geoffrey wanted a last word with him, 
and to hear again that reassurance of safety which 
meant so much to the three conspirators, and 
meant everything to himself. 

The little car jolted and rolled over the terrible 
rough ground which made such demands on tyres. 
Chaffey had instructed its driver in the simpler 
mechanical duties of chauffeur, and specially in 
the use of the Stepney. So far the strong sturdy 
little Renault had resisted even stones and ruts 
to effect a puncture. 

On this occasion however an ominous “bang” 
warned Geoffrey of fatality. The car was in an 
open space of roadway. He got it as much to the 
side as possible, and then dismounted, threw off 
his coat and hat, rolled up his sleeves, and set to 
work. The sound of wheels coming down the 
hillside behind him disturbed his labours at last. 
He rose and looked round. Even as he did so, a 
sense of the folly that is a man’s undoing hammered 
useless warnings in his ears. 

The vehicle was a light two- wheeled dogcart. 
The driver was looking down at him with the look 


A Debt to Pay 


309 


that had so often driven hatred and despair into 
his soul. For a brief second fear held him power- 
less. Dressed as George Gale he might have 
assumed George Gale’s personality. In this 
mechanic’s garb of rolled up sleeves and coatless 
negligence, he felt it was himself that he looked. 
That his eyes betrayed him to his enemy even 
while his dry lips strove for speech. 

“There’s plenty room to pass!” 

That was what he said, and even as he said it 
knew the man had no intention of passing. That 
he had drawn up his horse, and was sitting on the 
high seat, and would remain sitting there watching 
efforts which that surveillance turned to nervous 
feebleness. 

“Oh yes, there’s room,” said the man. “Punc- 
ture — I suppose?” 

“Speaks for itself, ” muttered Geoffrey, stooping 
down over the rim, and mechanically forcing his 
hands to do something which his brain could 
not visualize. 

“P’raps I could help you?” suggested his enemy, 
smiling the old hateful smile as he watched the 
nervous hands. 

“No, thanks, I quite understand. You’d better 
get on. Your horse is fidgety.” 

“He’ll have to stand as long as I want him to, ” 
answered his tormentor. “I’m not used to giving 
in to beast or man.” 

Geoffrey said nothing. His pulses beat like 
hammers. The blood throbbed in his temples 


310 


The Iron Stair 


as if the throbbing veins must burst. He pulled 
and twisted and jerked, but seemed to get no 
further with his task. And all the time those 
merciless eyes watched, and those thin lips sneered, 
and Geoffrey felt the gaze and the sneer in every 
fibre of his trembling body. 

At last the courage of despair came to him. He 
looked up and spoke the anger he felt. 

“I wish you’d go on. I hate to be watched 
while I’m working. I don’t need your help.” 

"Hate to be watched? Always did, didn’t 
you?” 

The evil face looked its insolent assurance, and 
anger sprang as of old to incautious lips. 

"How dare you speak like that! What do you 
mean?” 

"I think you know very well what I mean — 
Mr. Geoffrey Gale!” 

The boy’s heart seemed to stand still, as when 
those cold irons had first touched his wrists. Then 
all of manhood that he could summon rallied itself 
for a final effort. He straightened himself and 
looked full at the taunting face. 

"You must be mad,” he said, "or drunk! I’m 
not Geoffrey Gale!” 

"Never heard of him perhaps?” sneered the 
warder. 

Geoffrey took his courage in his hands for a last 
desperate effort. "Heard of him, ” he said slowly. 
"Of course I’ve heard of him. He was my — 
brother.” 


A Debt to Pay 


311 

Perhaps the calm avowal disconcerted the arro- 
gant questioner. Suspicion wavered for a mo- 
ment, doing battle with the instinct that assured 
him he was right. The eyes that looked back at 
him were no longer frightened or defiant. They 
simply challenged a denial of a statement. 

“Brother? If you’re his brother, and a clergy- 
man at that, you didn’t show much brotherly 
interest in him while he was up there, that I’ll 
say.” 

“May I ask what business that is — of yours?” 
demanded Geoffrey. 

“You don’t know me I suppose? Never saw 
me before?” 

“I certainly never wish to see you again! Will 
you drive on, and mind your own business, and 
leave me to mine!” 

“Look ’ere,” said the man. “Bluff’s a good 
dog, but my name’s Holdfast. There’s been a 
clever bit of trickery done round here, and I’m 
going to search it out. All very easy for you to 
pretend you’re the Reverend George, but I’m 
not convinced that way. A straight collar and 
a long coat aren’t everything. There’s hands — for 
instance. Perhaps you forget we’ve got Geoffrey 
Gale’s finger pri ts? Suppose you had to prove 
your hands weren’t the hands from which we took 
’em, what then, Mr. Gale, what then?” 

“You’d learn ^what then’ in due course,” 
said Geoffrey coolly. “You’re talking rank non- 
sense, and so I tell you, as I’d tell any one who 


312 


The Iron Stair 


made such statements. Do you suppose there 
aren’t dozens of people to speak of the likeness 
which has deceived you? Dozens of people to 
prove that I am — who I say I am?” 

“Oh! I grant you’ve got a clever case,” said 
the man. “But don’t think it’s going to be all 
plain sailing. You’ve been watched, and you’ll 
be watched again. You’ve had your warning; 
take it or leave it. There’s some eyes as you can’t 
throw dust into, clever as you may be!” 

He touched his horse and it sprang forward, 
and the dogcart rolled on, leaving Geoffrey stoop- 
ing still over that ill-adjusted Stepney. It was 
true then. He was suspected. There had been a 
difference between George and himself. A differ- 
ence that raised doubt and might yet demand 
proof. 

He felt his heart sink. Those words “You’ve 
been watched” rang unpleasantly in his ears. 
Perhaps his changed habits, his sobriety, had 
challenged remark. Yet it seemed to him im- 
possible that the fame of such actions could have 
reached as far as Princetown. He was so agitated 
that the wheel slipped from his hands. At the 
same moment a familiar “toot-toot” sounded, 
and he saw a small car running towards him. He 
recognized the other Renault, and Chaffey driving 
it. 

In a couple of moments it was beside him, and 
he was explaining his difficulties. Chaffey jumped 
down and came to his assistance. 


A Debt to Pay 313 

“I was on my way to you,” said Geoffrey 
eagerly. 

“And I thought of looking you up, sir. I’m 
leaving here in a day or two. Mr. Derringham 
said I was to let you know.” 

Then Geoffrey related what had taken place. 
It sounded an alarm for all concerned. Chaffey’s 
consternation was not reassuring. 

“Just what I always feared!” he exclaimed. 
“Finger prints, or some body mark that meant 
a difference. Damn that brute! Couldn’t he 
have let well alone!” 

“Whether I go or stay it’s equally dangerous,” 
said Geoffrey gloomily. 

“But stay a little longer if you can, sir. Don’t 
show the white feather at first alarm. After all 
he’s not everyone, this warder. And he’ll have 
his work cut out to make folks believe him. Them 
prison authorities are only too glad to let sleeping 
dogs lie.” 

“It was unfortunate I had taken off my hat,” 
said Geoffrey. “But what use to quibble. He’s 
had his suspicions and he means to work on my 
fears, or perhaps it’s blackmail he’s after?” 

“A risky game for one in his position. I don’t 
know what to say, sir. I wish Mr. Derringham 
was here.” 

“I’m glad he isn’t,” said Geoffrey. “I hope 
to goodness he’ll keep away from here, and from 
me, too, for the next twelve months.” 

“He’s not likely to do that, sir. Once he takes 


314 


The Iron Stair 


a thing into his head he’ll see it through. And 
it’s astonishing how he believes in you, sir, and 
did from the first.” 

*^He’s been the best friend I ever had,” said 
Geoffrey earnestly. 

‘T say the same!” exclaimed Chaff ey. ^‘What 
he’s done for me the Lord only knows. I’d give 
my right hand to help him, sir, if he wanted it. 
That I would.” 

The boy lifted his head, and looked away over 
the moor to the distant ring of hills. His hatred 
of the place, the longing to be free of it, and its 
associations, swept over him like a flood. 

“ Chaff ey, I canH bear it — I must go! If you 
knew what it was shut up in that dismal house. 

. . . Renee gone, Derringham gone, now you. 
Why can’t I take the car and get off with myself? 
Catch some outgoing steamer at Plymouth. Defy 
them all.” 

“You could, sir, of course, but it would look 
suspicious. You’ve done it so well up to now. 
Can’t you be patient a little longer? There’s your 
cousin to think of, you know?” 

“True, I forgot. Yes, we must save her from 
any suspicion. But oh — ^if I only knew what that 
brute means to do! It’s the suspense that’s so 
hard to bear!” 

“D’you think I don’t know it, sir? There — 
your wheel’s all right. What are you going to do. 
Come to my place and talk it out? If so I’ll run 
on ahead.” 


A Debt to Pay 


315 


“Yes, I’ll come to your place,” said Geoffrey, 
putting on his coat again. “I wonder if any one’s 
watching us, Chaffey?” 

“Don’t get thinkin’ of that, sir. It’ll unnerve 
you. Believe me, it’s best to put a bold face on 
things. I hope you didn’t let him see you were 
frightened, sir?” 

‘ ‘ I think not. I absolutely denied his accusation. 
He answered: ‘Bluff was a good dog, but Hold- 
fast was a better.’ I take that to mean he’s going 
to hold on to his idea. Only I don’t see how he can 
possibly prove it.” 

“No more he could, sir. I shouldn’t worry. 
It’s my belief he’s playing a low-down trick to get 
money out of somebody . If he took this cock- 
and-bull story to the Guv’nor I’m sure he’d be told 
to go about his business. What could he prove 
against your uncle’s word, the old Rector, your own 
wife ! They’d all stand to it you were George Gale, 
and who’s to prove you’re not?” 

So Geoffrey took heart again, and went back to 
that first refuge, and spent the next hour weighing 
the pros and cons of the situation until once again 
he felt that the exchanged identities would never 
be challenged, or that if challenged could never be 
proved. 

In her quiet retreat in that sunny nook of Corn- 
wall Renee rested and reflected, and took counsel 
with her own heart. 

The kind old French lady had so much of her 


3i6 


The Iron Stair 


nation’s tact and delicacy that she made no at- 
tempt to force the confidence of “her child” as 
she still called her. She had been terribly shocked 
at the change in the girl. Shattered health and 
broken nerves were a sad experience for a bride of 
six months. But Renee would say nothing, and 
her father knew nothing, so the old lady drew her 
own conclusions, and contented herself with such 
ministry of love and care as was best suited to the 
situation. 

There had been open rebellion on Renee’s part 
when both the doctor and her father opposed her 
desire for solitude as well as change of scene. 
But when Madame Gascoigne met her with neither 
question, nor observation, her resolution gave 
way. 

“Just leave me alone,” was all she said, as she 
freed herself from the tender embrace of a first 
greeting. And she had been taken at her word. 

If she read, or walked, or merely sat gazing for 
long hours at the shining sea before the cottage 
window, no questions were asked, no interference ^ 
offered. After two weeks of such absolute rest her 
mind began to calm down again. She was still so 
young, and life might yet atone for this marred and 
tragic opening. She read Geoffrey’s letters again 
and again, wishing they revealed more of Geoffrey 
himself. She looked at first anxiously, then wist- 
fully, for one other letter that had never come, 
though promised. The omission was her own fault, 
that she knew. Her temper again. That quick 


A Debt to Pay 


317 


petulance which had so often stood between her 
best interests and her impetuous desires. 

The warm sun, the delicious air, the simple food 
and life began to exercise their due effects. She 
woke with a sense of strength instead of a tired 
indifference. She found in exercise a solace for 
troubled thoughts, and in books an interest that 
could force attention, instead of seeking to gain it. 
Once she turned the corner her improvement was 
rapid. Madame Gascoigne saw, and rejoiced, and 
waited. Some day the child would speak; some 
day the burden be shared with this truest and old- 
est friend. Meanwhile, she contented herself 
with the improvement of which she had almost 
despaired. Those letters must surely be from her 
husband,, and to write so often meant that he was 
not indifferent, or faithless, or any of the tragic, 
dreadful things that she had feared at first. Such 
being the case the change could only be attributed 
to grief for that other cousin, the one of whose 
tragic end she had been told by old Jessop in their 
confidential talk. 

Naturally such an event had been a shock to the 
girl; she of the tender heart, and warm quick 
impulses, and generous nature. “But it will all 
come right, ” thought the old lady, nodding over 
her delicate needlework in the sunny cottage par- 
lour. “Time heals everything, and when one is 
young one can forget so easily.” 

So when Renee went out with the old fisherman, 
who was their landlord, and learnt to row, and fish, 


318 


The Iron Stair 


and set a sail, and would come in with the salt of 
the sea in her hair, and the flush of the sun on her 
cheeks, and the innocent joy of some fresh nautical 
experience to relate, her wise old friend rejoiced 
with her and encouraged her, thankful that the 
cloud had lifted at last. 

She wrote of all this to Renee’s father. She 
never doubted but that such welcome news was 
given to George Gale by Renee herself. 

Then one day came a letter in an unknown hand- 
writing, bearing the London postmark. Madame 
Gascoigne expressed surprise, and the fact drew 
Renee’s attention. 

“Hadn’t you better open it?” she said, and a 
hot flush rose to her face. She stooped to pat the 
head of the old Bobtail who belonged to the fisher- 
man, but had devoted himself to the young lodger. 
She chattered disjointed phrases to the animal by 
way of showing indifference. But the rustle of the 
paper, the quick occasional comments of the reader 
were so many pricks to her nerves. She had recog- 
nized the writing at once. She was wondering how 
Aubrey Derringham had secured their address. 

“To think of it!” exclaimed the old lady, laying 
down the letter at last. “Figure to yourself, my 
child, that Mr. Derringham, who calls himself my 
^old friend,’ writes here to propose himself a 
visit ! He will not come unless your health is equal 
to receiving him. Your health!” She smiled. 
“I would that he could see you now, all rosy, and 


A Debt to Pay 


319 

joyous once again. But he is to be commended 
for his thoughtfulness, is he not?” 

“ How did he know where you were?” asked the 
girl. 

‘ ‘ Oh, that — ^it was a simple affair. He addressed 
himself to your father.” She turned to the letter 
again. “He says here that an affair of some im- 
portance requires your attention. But on no ac- 
count would he trouble you unless your health 
was restored sufficiently for such an interview.” 

“Fm quite well — now,” said Renee. 

“Then do you wish that I tell him to come? He 
will motor down, he says, and awaits a wire of 
permission. ” 

“Motor!” Renee’s eyes flashed. She thought 
of the lovely Mercedes ; the delight of long sunny 
days spent in riot of speed and glory of scenery. 
Did he intend to stay? Had he thought of her 
passion for motoring, and was he coming down 
for that reason? But why had he not written to 
her? Was he still offended? 

She rose from the breakfast table, and pushed 
back her chair. “I’ll go into Penzance and send 
the wire,” she said. “It’s a lovely day. I’ll enjoy 
the walk. ” 

“ It is too far, cherie^ ” remonstrated the old lady. 

“Nonsense! I’m as strong as ever I was. If 
I feel tired I can drive back. What am I to say ? ” 

“That remains for you, my child. Simply tell 
him he may come when he pleases.” 

And Renee went off for her hat, and called the 


320 


The Iron Stair 


dog for company. Spring was in her heart, and 
in her feet, and in every copse and lane she tra- 
versed. Birds were singing on bare boughs that 
soon would be aflush with new leafage. 

“Oh! it must be good news that he brings!’* she 
told herself. “And he hasn’t forgotten! I tor- 
tured myself for nothing, imbecile that I am!” 

She thought of a dozen ways of wording that 
“wire of permission. ” But after all it was only a 
very simple message that went. 

“ Come when you please. Renee. ” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


“ THROUGH BARS THAT HIDE THE STARS ” 

The first glance at Aubrey Derringham’s face 
showed it grave and anxious enough to alarm the 
girl whose hand he held. Ordinary greeting was an 
effort. The fact of having to sit at the tea table 
and talk conventions to the old French lady was a 
greater effort. And every moment the girl’s heart 
grew heavier, as she asked herself what had hap- 
pened now? What could have happened to dis- 
turb Aubrey so seriously? 

The moment tea was finished she sprang up. 
“We will go down to the sea, ” she said. “It is a 
lovely evening and warm. I’ll take you for a row, 
if you like?” 

Aubrey rose with alacrity, offered excuses to the 
old French lady, who only smiled and nodded, and 
said: “Enjoy yourselves, my children,” and then 
they were side by side once more, petulance and 
differences forgotten, the graver side of life demand- 
ing all their attention. 

As briefly as possible Aubrey Derringham re- 
lated what had happened. There was no doubt 
that someone was suspicious of Geoffrey. No 
21 321 


322 


The Iron Stair 


doubt that he was shadowed and watched. No 
doubt that Ann Whyddon had been interviewed, 
and the villagers questioned. 

The one thing that did not fit the changed iden- 
tity was that new habit of temperance. That 
fact and Renee’s departure had been the significant 
discoveries of their joint enemy. After that meet- 
ing on the moor, and Chaffey’s return to London, 
Geoffrey had become the prey of his own terrors, 
and the recipient of vague threats, which had at 
last culminated in a direct menace. Receiving it 
the boy seemed to have lost all self-command. He 
rushed off to Moreton, took train, and came 
straight to Aubrey’s rooms in the Albany. Once 
there he collapsed, and was now in a state of fever 
and nervous prostration that was really alarming. 
All he had gone through of hardship and anxiety, 
of lonely terrors, and strained nerves had resulted 
in a complete breakdown. 

“The cause,” said Aubrey, “is here.” 

He took out a letter from his pocket book, and 
gave it to the girl. She stood steadily enough, 
though sky and sea seemed whirling round her, 
as she read. 

' It was an insolent letter, full of veiled threats, 
but its end was significant enough: “You best 
know if you can afford to be blown on, or if a mat- 
ter of £1000 is worth the price of your safety. 
You’ve rich friends, and plucky ones. Ask their 
advice.” 

“Those last words are a veiled threat,” said 


Through Bars 


323 


Aubrey, as he took the letter from her shaking 
hand. “It’s a hit at me. The man knows well 
enough that Geoffrey can’t give him a thousand 
pounds. That he daren’t ask youi father, or that 
you daren’t ask him either. He’s got us all in a 
trap, and he knows that we know it. Yet not a 
name is mentioned, nor is his name signed.” 

Renee looked at him, unable to frame the ques- 
tion trembling on her lips. 

“ Do you doubt that I’d give it, twice, ten times 
over, if I thought it would save Geoffrey?” said 
Aubrey passionately. “But that’s the question 
we’ve to face. It’s blackmail of the most black- 
guardly sort. And no blackmailer rests satisfied 
with one attempt. This means fresh demands; 
never-ending fears; life turned to hellish torment 
for us all. No wonder the poor boy has broken 
down under the strain. But, for all that, he’s 
done the worst thing he could have done. He’s — 
run away from a threat, instead of facing it.” 

Renee turned her white face to the sea, and 
wondered whether implied cowardice might not 
include herself. Was she not prime mover in all 
this mischief? From first to last had she not 
dragged Aubrey Derringham’s name into the sor- 
did horrors of her family life? 

“I was reluctant to tell you,” said Aubrey 
presently. “But Geoffrey seemed to think it best. 
We daren’t say anything to your father. You 
and I have got to decide it between us. It’s hor- 
rible for you, Renee, either way. You’d have to 


324 


The Iron Stair 


swear Geoffrey was your husband against even 
your father’s doubts; the hateful records of that 
prison. You’d have to face it, and make him face 
it before those authorities whose duty it is to search 

to the bottom of the mystery — or else ” 

“Is there any other way?” she cried. 

“I said ‘either’ way. There is an alternative. 
I could see the man, and try to bind him down to 
— this one exaction. I might succeed — I don’t 
know. I should play a very bold game, for I 
would bring a lawyer with me, and the matter 
would be made legally binding. I think we might 
secure him in that way. ” 

“A lawyer?” she faltered. “But surely no 
lawyer would consent to hide such a secret? You 
would have to tell him the whole facts of the case? ” 
“The — man — I have in my mind, ” said Aubrey, 
“knows the facts of the case. Knows that there 
was a miscarriage of justice ; that Geoffrey suffered 
for sake of another. I could prove now who that 
other was!” 

“ George — ” she gasped. “You’ve found out?” 
“We have as much proof as can be got from cir- 
cumstantial evidence apart from strong suspicion. 
I have come here, Renee, to put both cases before 
you, and ask for your decision. Don’t speak at 
once, or even tonight. Think it over, and tell me 
the result. I must go back to town tomorrow. ” 

“ So soon? ” The words escaped her with scarce 
conscious regret. She had hoped he was going to 
stay for a few days at least. 


Through Bars 


325 


Yes. We have to settle this matter as quickly 
as possible. If Geoffrey’s mind were set at rest, 
his health would soon recover. As it is, all this 
has preyed upon him to such a degree that the 
doctor is very anxious. You know the boy was 
hardly strong enough to leave us when he had to 
play up to Chaffey’s desperate ruse. Think of all 
he has gone through since? Loneliness and con- 
stant fear, and now this dastard’s threat.” 

ought not to have left him,” she faltered. 
‘T see it now. It must have roused suspicion. 
But I’m always doing the wrong things, and regret- 
ting them!” ^ 

She looked up at him, the tears wet on her pale 
face. How pale and childish it looked in that 
twilight obscurity. 

‘ ‘ Y ou — ought to hate me 1 ’ ’ she went on . “ I ’ ve 

dragged you into all this, and not even shown you 
common gratitude. Oh — why don’t you treat us 
as we deserve ! Go away, and leave us to get out of 
the scrape that we got ourselves into!” 

He took her hands in both his own. ‘ ‘ Dear little 
girl,” he said gently, “you know you are talking 
foolishly. Is it at all likely that having put my 
hand to this particular plough I should decline to 
drive the furrow? Have I not told you that I 
owe you the reclaiming of a very useless life? Is 
that nothing to be grateful for? Chaff ey could 
tell you a different story. Now, pull yourself 
together for one last effort! It shall be the last, 
I promise you. ” 


326 


The Iron Stair 


She drew away her hands, and wiped her eyes. 

Very well, ’’ she said. “ I will go back to town 
with you, and marry Geoffrey!” 

Aubrey felt his heart stand suddenly still. The 
declaration was so absolutely unexpected. 

‘T will not have you pay this money!” she went 
on passionately. ‘T will not have your name 
dragged into this sordid business ! Let me marry 
Geoffrey at once ; at his bedside even. Then I can 
swear he is my husband. The authorities must 
believe we.” 

Still Aubrey Derringham said nothing. With 
all he knew of her impulsiveness, her swift and sud- 
den twists of temper, he could not have credited her 
with such a daring scheme as this. It was as if 
she had leaped over the very barrier that he had 
been trying to evade. And having achieved the 
leap, she calmly confronted him as victor. 

Marry him! Marry Geoffrey Gale, her hus- 
band’s brother! Would it be even legal, he won- 
dered, thinking confusedly of tables of affinities, 
of the deceased wife’s sister’s bill; of the facts 
connecting George Gale’s death with the quick 
termination of widowhood? 

So white, and stern, and silent he was, that the 
girl grew alarmed. She touched his arm. “Oh! 
do speak!” she implored. “What is the matter 
with you? Have I done something wrong again? ” 

“No — not yet, ” he said harshly. “But I think 
it would be wrong to do what you said. I mean 
unless it was excused by one fact.” 


Through Bars 


327 


^‘What?’’ 

“That it was Geoffrey you had loved, never his 
brother.” 

The colour ebbed from the upraised face, leaving 
it white as death. 

‘ ‘ Geoffrey ? loved Geoffrey ? ' ’ she repeated. ‘ ‘ Of 
course I loved him always — as a brother — but I 
hated George!” 

“Only as a brother?” said Aubrey. “Renee, 
are you sure? Oh — are you sure? ” 

“I am as sure as that I am here — saying it,” 
she answered. 

The pendulum of feeling swung back again. 
The reaction of that moment, its sudden relief, 
set Aubrey trembling with long repressed emotion. 
He had struggled, suffered, endured, and after 
all she had never loved either of the two men who 
had controlled her life, and still affected its future. 

“Then — then — you shall not do this thing! 
You shall not be sacrificed a second time! No, 
not if it costs me everything I most value — that I 
swear!” 

She drew back a step or two, frightened by his 
impetuosity. She had never seen him so moved, 
so stirred. 

“But — why not?” she said faintly. 

“Why not? Because I — love you, Ren6e! 
Because ever since that hour that night at Wey- 
mouth, your sorrowful girl’s face has haunted me, 
and lived with me, and become to me the dearest 
thing in life ! What it cost me to let you go out of 


328 


The Iron Stair 


it, to meet you as I met you on the moor, you’ll 
never know, for I could never tell you. And 
I always thought you loved Geoffrey Gale, and 
from some foolish idea of self-sacrifice had married 
his brother. And I’ve been wrong. Oh, my dear, 
don’t look so frightened ! I — I won’t ask anything 
of you. We will be just as we have been until this 
black cloud has passed, for pass it must. I told 
you there were two alternatives . Well , no w there ’ s 
only one, and that one I shall take. The bold 
course is often the best. To face a coward often 
frightens him into a deeper cowardice. Leave it 
all to me, Renee. Only promise to do as I ask, 
and to — trust me?” 

He held out his arms, and caught the sobbing 
shaken wreck of girlhood to his heart, and held her 
there while the storm had its way. Of all the love 
that had grown up for her, and shrined her way- 
ward, adorable, impulsive self so jealously, he said 
nothing. He knew it was not the moment. She 
was now only realizing what a man’s love might 
mean. Possibly she was ignorant of her own heart ; 
terrified to acknowledge what she had never al- 
lowed herself to believe. 

The quiet touch of his hand on the bright un- 
covered head, the quiet tones of his voice in her 
ear, gradually calmed those wild sobs. 

“I — oh, I have been so unhappy . . . . Oh — 
I never thought . : . I never thought . . . ” 

“Don’t think now,” he said, “of anything, 
except that you are to get well and strong again, 


329 


Through Bars 

and that I am going to manage everything for 
you — as your friend. I am that you know, my 
child. You allowed me to call myself so.” 

'^Was there ever such a friend!” she cried 
brokenly. ^‘And IVe behaved so horridly — al- 
ways — to you.” 

“I forgive it all,” he said gently. don’t 
think I ever bore you any resentment for it. You 
don’t suppose I shall do so — after this?” 

She raised her head and shook back the loose soft 
hair, and met the passionate tenderness of those 
remembered eyes. No other eyes had ever looked 
at her as his had looked, yet she had never read 
their true meaning until now. Helpless, sorrow- 
ful, nerve shattered as she felt herself to be, that 
gravely tender look brought assurance and comfort 
and a joy she had never known till now. 

“ I don’t know what to say, ” she faltered. Ex- 
cept that I trust you. I always have, you know. 
You make me feel so safe. ” 

He smiled then, and bending touched her lips 
with the restraint he had learnt in a hard school. 

^Tf you feel — that,” he said, ‘T am content. 
. . . The rest can wait. ” 

He drew her hand within his arm, and they 
walked on in silence. Both were too agitated, 
too deeply moved for commonplace speech. 
There were issues ahead to be dealt with, but the 
present moment had also its importance. 

Aubrey Derringham had long known that he 


330 


The Iron Stair 


had committed himself to a grave responsibility 
from the hour when he had promised to help Renee 
in her scheme for Geoffrey’s escape. 

It is no use to set private judgment against the 
strong forces of that huge machine which can 
grind men’s lives to dust, and break their spirit 
and wear out their energies by its complicated 
ingenuity. No matter of absolute right and abso- 
lute wrong has ever been judged on these merits 
of wrong and right by any Law Court in the world. 
They never will be so judged. It would be too 
simple a method of dealing with the obvious, and 
it would effectually barricade any side issue on 
which right and wrong are fought. Law is for 
those who have made it what it is, not for those 
who desire its help in any matter of self-justifica- 
tion. Like the Church it is set upon a pedestal of 
importance, and surrounded by such an enormous 
paraphernalia of pomp, pageantry, and supersti- 
tion that the lay mind, or the distracted public, 
can only lament their inability to affect it. 

When it has driven a desperate soul to suicide, 
or crime, it takes refuge in the ordered platitude 
of “unsound mind.’’ Aubrey Derringham knew 
that that verdict was very near a fresh challenge 
when he had rescued Geoffrey Gale from his 
desperate plight. He had saved him, helped him, 
consoled him. He could not allow that in acting 
thus he had done wrong. On that point his con- 
science was clear. On the other hand he trembled 
to think what might happen to Renee, Chaff ey. 


Through Bars 331 

himself, if their part in this adventure ever came 
to light. 

In his longing to defend the girl who trusted him 
so entirely he felt he must nerve himself for a 
trying ordeal. He must brave the very law he 
had broken ; face the whole structure of difficulties, 
contingencies, fiction, fact, and procedure con- 
tained in these two words “legal advice.” 

When at last he spoke to Renee, her tears were 
spent; her voice had lost its tremor. 

“You understand, my dear, that your first 
suggestion is impracticable. You have been sacri- 
ficed once. I cannot permit a second ‘burnt 
offering. ’ Now, my plan may succeed, or it may 
not. But even if it fails, we are no worse off. If 
this brute has to be muzzled, well, muzzled he must 
be. As soon as Geoffrey is well enough, I shall 
get him out of the country. All I want to ask 
you is to go back to Shapsdown as soon as possible, 
and arrange to dispose of, or despatch, your own 
possessions. Would you have the courage for 
this? I don’t like to ask you, but it must be you, 
or your father. I have heard of an old broken 
down cleric who would be only too glad to take 
George’s place. He has written to the Rector and 
offered himself. He is very poor and has an old 
sister to maintain. I thought if you could leave 
two or three rooms furnished it would be a charity. 
You will not need anything, save your own per- 
sonal belongings. The fact of your being seen 


333 


The Iron Stair 


again, and making such arrangements, will pre- 
vent suspicion at Geoffrey’s sudden departure. 
You must tell your servant that his health broke 
down; that the place did not agree with him, or 
with you. There’s also the question of the car. 
I could send Chaffey if you wish. He could 
bring it away ” 

“Oh — couldn’t I come away in it?” she cried. 
“The few things I want out of the house could be 
packed and sent off by rail. But if I could have 
my dear little car again, and come back here — ” 
She looked up. 

“You wish to come back here, not Weymouth?” 

“Weymouth? ...” 

“Will it make you so unhappy?” he asked. 

“Not now!"' she said, her face a vivid flame, her 
eyes dark with emotion. “Everything is changed 
since you came. I feel strong enough to bear 
whatever there is to bear. ” 

“I hope there will not be very much more, my 
child, for both our sakes.” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


'' IN god's sweet world again " 

“You have put a very remarkable case, Mr. 
Derringham. As strange a one as I ever heard. 
Now, is it my professional advice you are seeking, 
or do you wish me to speak as a friend?" 

Aubrey Derringham was in Joshua Myers’s 
chambers, in the Temple. He had come there by 
appointment, and the meeting had been one of 
real pleasure at the renewal of intimacy. Aubrey, 
speaking for a friend, as he put it, had laid before 
the shrewd young barrister a resume of facts of 
his own experience. The fiction of that “second 
person" did not deceive Myers for a moment. 
He smiled to himself as he thought that in a certain 
drawer close to his hand lay a red-taped bundle of 
documentary evidence which would have given 
name and date and place and person of every actor 
in the drama so lucidly described. 

“I should like your professional opinion of 
course," said Aubrey. “But I should value a 
friendly chat on the subject even more. Will you 
come round to my rooms tonight? At least . . . 
I forgot ” 


333 


334 


The Iron Stair 


“Is he staying there?” questioned Myers, an 
amused smile touching the corners of his mouth as 
he glanced at the confused face. 

“He— who?” 

“The friend, of course, about whom you have 
been consulting me.” 

Aubrey hesitated a moment. 

“It’s best to tell the truth to two people in the 
world, if no more, ’ ’ said Myers. ‘ ‘ Y our doctor and 
your lawyer. You can trust me fully, my dear 
Derringham, I am the recipient of secrets enough 
to divorce half the leaders of society, and send a 
score or two of commercial magnates to the tread- 
mill. Do you suppose — we — who follow the Law 
are not sometimes the Law’s sternest accusers?” 

“You ought to be, God knows!” said Aubrey 
impulsively. “For you make more criminals than 
you condemn.” 

“That’s rather sweeping,” said Myers. “But, 
possibly you’re a little hurt at the present moment. 
Well, I’ll just look over those papers, if you’ll 
leave them, and let you know my opinion tonight. 
What time shall I be at your rooms?” 

“At eight o clock. I can offer you some sort of 
a dinner, unkvss you prefer to go out?” 

“No, I should prefer to stop in, and have a full 
talk. Your story is interesting enough for a 
modern novel. Only in a novel no one would 
believe it could have happened. Coincidence is 
rarely the slave of opportunity. Your — friend — 
should be congratulated. ” 


In God’s Sweet World Again 335 

Still with that enigmatical smile he opened the 
door and showed Aubrey out. But it left his 
lips with the closing of the door. 

^ “My quixotic friend has got himself into 
trouble/' he said. “This is the Jessop v. Gale 
case, or I’m much mistaken. I remember how 
interested he was in it, at the time. ’’ 

Aubrey walked back to his rooms in the cold 
spring sunshine. That letter had given a week for 
decision. There were yet three days before he 
need decide. 

Geoffrey Gale had thrown off his feverish attack, 
but it had left him very shaken, and very weak. 
It needed all Aubrey’s hopefulness and all his 
patience to cope with the growing melancholia 
that held him in thrall. Fear and intimidation 
had broken down his small reserve of strength. 
Even here, with only Chaffey’s kindly nursing, 
and Derringham’s safeguarding presence, he was 
a prey to every sort of terror and anxiety. 

His one desire was to get away, to get out of this 
harsh unlovely country and seek fresh scenes, and 
strive for fresh energies. But the doctor declared 
he was unfit for travel yet. He must rest, and 
feed up, and get his strength back. Even then 
he must not go unaccompanied. To Aubrey he 
spoke even more seriously than to his patient. 
The boy — for Geoffrey’s twenty-four years meant 
only that — had received a severe shock. Something 
that had shattered the delicate fibres of a delicate 


336 


The Iron Stair 


organization, in a fashion that defied mere drugs 
to restore. 

“If the source of the trouble could be traced, 
if his mind could be set at rest, the physical forces 
might rally again. You are his friend, perhaps 
he will confide in you. ... I have done all I 
can.’’ 

Aubrey listened in silence. There was nothing 
to confide. He knew Geoffrey’s secret, and Geof- 
frey’s danger, but the knowledge brought no hint 
of how to cope with its disastrous effects. He tried 
his best to cheer the boy. He told him that all the 
skill of Myers’s astute brain would go to the un- 
ravelling of this tangled skein, and he tried also 
to impress upon him that if the worst came, hush 
money would be paid, and the matter closed for 
ever. 

He and Myers dined alone, with Chaffey in 
attendance. Chaffey, as the dens ex machina of 
all this tragedy, alone kept cool and impassive. 
The fact of the barrister’s presence in his master’s 
rooms spoke of final desperation. It was the last 
stand against the enemy, and it must mean 
conquest, or defeat. He left the two over their 
coffee and liqueurs, put the silver box of cigarettes 
on the table, and then retired. 

He would have given a great deal to know what 
went on behind those closed doors, but it spoke 
well of his reformed habits that he had learnt re- 
sistance of temptation as well as its meaning. So 


In God’s Sweet World Again 337 

he went quietly away to Geoffrey’s room, and gave 
him the opiate without which sleep had become 
impossible. 

He sat there by the fire reading until the strained 
eyes closed and sleep sent its ministering calm to 
the restless frame. 

Then he lowered the light, and went away to his 
own duties. He had no suspicion that these 
bachelor quarters were doomed, that his master 
was regaling himself with a prospective vision of 
a country house and home fireside, and a compan- 
ion that Chaffey’s faithful devotion could never 
rival 

It was twelve o’clock before that conference 
ended. Twelve o’clock when, wearied, but no 
longer harassed by doubts, Aubrey Derringham 
clasped Myers’s extended hand and tried to thank 
him for a service beyond all thanks. 

The barrister answered the pressure with the 
silence of strong emotion. 

^‘The survival of the fittest is the best principle 
of nature,” he remarked. “I’d like to have seen 
my young client again, but I must remember that 
he is not my client. The case is as clear as any- 
thing can be in this pettifogging world. I think 
our friend, the blackmailer, will be a little astonished 
when he is summoned by the Governor for a 
private conference, and confronts me.” 

“It’s a bold game,” exclaimed Aubrey. “But 
I agree with you that boldness is the only way to 


22 


338 


The Iron Stair 


meet such a charge. Of course I will hold myself 
in readiness to come, if called upon — and so will 
Renee/ ^ 

“You won’t be called upon, trust me. I know 
the Governor well. I shall take a firm stand ; that 
of the loftiest integrity, considering what an im- 
portant part I played in the case. George Gale’s 
flight to London was for legal advice. His break- 
down can be certified as the result of grief for his 
brother, and the villainous threats of our friend 
at Dartmoor. Oh, trust me, my dear Derring- 
ham, there’s no strenuous anxiety on the part of 
those in authority to parade such a matter as this. 
If one man was wrongfully convicted, as we know 
he was, well, better hush it up. If the other has 
suffered indignity, he suffered it in the cold silence 
of death. Let it rest at that. But the wretch 
who has tried to trade on an accidental circum- 
stance, to persecute an unfortunate family, who 
have already suffered so much, why for such a one 
we demand swift justice. If he is dismissed we do 
not threaten active proceedings. We are not 
unmerciful. But there must be an end, once and 
for ever, to these dastardly attempts. There — 
have I pleaded sufficiently to convince you?” 

“Indeed you have. It’s like cutting the ground 
from under his feet. I almost wish I could see 
him. He gave me a bad half hour once, when he 
searched my house.” 

“You keep yourself out of it,” said Myers, 
putting the papers in his pocket, “and trust to 


In God’s Sweet World Again 339 

me. I’m not pleading before a blundering old 
dunderhead this time, too obsessed by his own ills 
and ailments to bring clear judgment to any 
case!” 

Chaffey stole in to minister to any last require- 
ments. Possibly to hear results. 

His master’s face was reassuring. “ I do believe 
we’re out of the wood at last,” he said. “Our 
friend has overreached himself for once. It’s not 
likely that the Governor would credit his story 
in face of the array of evidence we can bring, with 
the prisoner’s own counsel to back up our defence. 
With the holy terror of publishing legal error as 
our strongest weapon against the laws we’ve 
defied.” 

‘ ‘ It’s splendid, sir 1 ” exclaimed Chaffey. “ Splen- 
did! I — I think I brought you an interest in life 
at last, sir?” 

“More than we reckoned for, Chaffey, but I’m 
not sorry. I can never pretend again that life is 
not — interesting. ” 

With all his confidence, Aubrey Derringham 
waited with feverish apprehension for the result 
of that interview with the authorities. Myers 
had promised to wire the result very guardedly. 
Neither of them desired the post-office officials at 
Princetown to get wind of who demanded such 
urgent information. Myers had suggested send- 
ing the message through his own clerk, who was 


340 


The Iron Stair 


to wire it on to Aubrey's chambers. He had to 
command his soul in patience ; to cheer Geoffrey ; 
to write to Renee. 

He had schooled himself to do that with the same 
restrained tenderness that he had shown her on 
that night of self-betrayal. In her distress, and 
confusion, and with the consciousness of that 
tragic widowhood it would have seemed to him the 
worst possible taste to play the ardent lover. 
She knew what he felt. She knew he had saved 
her from another sacrifice. Her own heart would 
tell her the rest. 

She was still in Cornwall. He had advised 
her remaining there until this affair was settled. 
Besides, he could not spare the invaluable Chaff ey 
just yet. 

He and Geoffrey Gale were in his sitting-room 
awaiting that expected telegram. Aubrey sat in 
his favoirrite chair, a heap of newspapers beside 
him, a cigarette between his lips. 

Geoffrey’s face was deadly white; the muscles 
of his face twitched nervously. He started at 
every sound, though there were not many to reach 
that quiet retreat. 

“If — we don’t hear tonight,” he muttered. 
“Derringham, isn’t it time? Surely it’s time? 
The interview was to be this morning.” 

“It might not have been till this afternoon,” 
said Aubrey. “ Mr. Myers would have to wait the 
Governor’s own time.” 

“Of course. . . . Oh, do tell me again, do 


In God’s Sweet World Again 341 

you think it was a wise move? Do you think 
they’ll believe?” 

^^My dear boy, I can only repeat what I’ve 
said before. Myers would not have done such a 
desperate thing had he not felt sure he would 
bring it off. So, for God’s sake, try and calm 
yourself. Will you have a cigarette, a whiskey 
and soda, anything?” 

“I’ll have a drink. Yes, you must pardon me, 
Derringham. It was living in that beastly house — 
the loneliness — it got on my nerves, and then that 
threat finished me. ” 

Aubrey gave him the drink for which he had 
asked, and took a small quantity himself. He had 
a difficult task, that of seeming cool and indiffer- 
ent, while in reality he suffered as keenly as the 
boy. He began to talk to him of plans he had 
formed. Of how they would take the mail boat 
for San Francisco, as soon as his health permitted. 
Of the benefit he would obtain from a sea voyage, 
the lovely climate, the freedom from future 
anxiety. 

“We — do you mean to say you are coming with 
me?” exclaimed Geoffrey. 

“I said so. It’s a long time since I’ve had a sea 
voyage. I mean to see you safely established, and 
then ” 

“What then?” 

“There is Renee to think of, and your uncle.” 

The boy clasped his hands together, and leant 
forward in his chair. 


342 


The Iron Stair 


“ Derringham, you’re doing all this — for her 
sake! I know ” 

Aubrey’s face lost some of its composure. 

“What then?” he said. 

“What then? It’s such a big thing; it means 
so much! It makes me ashamed. ” 

The ready tears sprang to his eyes. They were 
never very far away. 

“You’ve no need to be ashamed,” said Aubrey. 
“And it will rest with you to repay her — for the 
big thing — as you call it. No one else can. ” 

“How — in what way?” 

“I will tell you later.” 

“No, no! Now, tell me now?” entreated the 
boy. “I’m not such a weak fool as you think. 
Why, even to know that I could do something for 
her, or you, puts strength into me. It means an 
object in life; it gives me something to live for. 
Do you know, last night, if it hadn’t been for 
Chaffey I should have finished that morphia. 
Taken a double dose and ended everything. 
There, it’s out. You can despise me a little 
more.” 

“ God forbid that I should do that, ” said Aubrey 
compassionately. “I know what you’ve gone 
through. It would have tried stronger nerves 
than yours.” 

“But tell me — tell me what it is I can do — live 
for?” 

“You force my hand,” said Aubrey. “I had 
not meant to say anything yet. Simply as I can 


In God’s Sweet World Again 343 

put it, Geoffrey, the facts are these. I — love 
Renee. She — cares for me.’* 

— I guessed that.” 

“Well, you know the situation. As long as you 
are in this country she must keep up the pretence 
of being a wife. ” 

“But I’m going away almost immediately.” 

“But — can you stay away? Remember, that 
to all who know this story, Geoffrey Gale is dead. 
All your life you have to play that other part.” 

“It means — banishment? That was what you 
meant when you said I could do one thing for you 
both?” 

“Yes, it means banishment. Even your uncle 
must not know — yet. When he does, he will have 
to believe in your innocence, but he will be power- 
less to atone for his injustice. I have thought — 
sometimes, he might choose to make atonement. 
He might go to you, as Renee and I will go. Don’t 
fear you will be forgotten, my boy. Ah ” 

He started violently. There was a loud ring 
at the outer door. He heard Chaffey go to answer 
it. Geoffrey sank back in his chair, his eyes resting 
on the door, whose opening meant life or death, or 
so it seemed to him. 

Chaffey ushered in a lanky youth ; sandy-haired, 
self-important. He held a yellow envelope in his 
hand. “Mr. Myers sent this to me. I thought it 
would save time if I brought it myself, sir.” 

Aubrey held out his hand, marvelling at its 
steadiness. 


344 


The Iron Stair 


The envelope was open. He took out the slip 
of paper, and read : 

Perfectly satisfactory. Wire all settled to the 
client for whom I am acting. ” 

He looked at Geoffrey. "‘It’s all right. The 
message is from Myers. 

He turned to the youth, anxious to screen the 
half fainting figure in the chair. Thank you so 
much for your trouble in coming here. Can my 
man give you some refreshment?’* 

The youth coloured and mumbled thanks, and 
Aubrey piloted him to the door, and called Chaffey. 
Then he closed it, and went back to Geoffrey. 

^‘It*s all right, it’s all right! We’re safe now! 

. . . Yes, cry if you please, don’t mind me. 
It’ll do you good . . . it’ll do us both good . . . 
it’ll do Chaffey good!” 

For somehow Chaffey was there too; white and 
shaken, and holding their hands, and murmuring 
confused congratulations, but in his heart was a 
thankfulness that he could never have expressed, 
or they could never have understood. For — 
was not he the cause and originator of the whole 
business? He — who had determined to rouse his 
bored and listless master to the realities that under- 
lie all phases of life? 

A year later a beautiful steam yacht glided 
majestically into the harbour of San Diego, a 
thriving port of Southern California. As it came 
to anchor, flying the Union Jack at its masthead, 


In God’s Sweet World Again 345 


a boat shot out from the quay. It held a solitary 
passenger, whose coming seemed expected by two 
eagerly watchful figures leaning over the vessel’s 
side. 

^‘At last! Oh! he’s waving his hand! Look, 
Aubrey! How well he looks, how changed!” 

Changed indeed was the alert brisk figure that 
ran up the lowered ladder and reached the deck, 
and gave the hearty English greeting to remem- 
bered friends. The face was bronzed and healthy, 
the figure looked taller. But the eyes were Geof- 
frey’s eyes, and the voice was Geoffrey’s voice. 

“To think you’ve come at last! I hardly dared 
hope it!” 

“And we’ve brought father!” exclaimed Renee. 
“He’s determined to see if Los Angeles is the 
paradise you’ve declared, and if it is — oh, here 
he comes! He must speak for himself.” 

But there was very little to say, as the young 
man and the old gripped hands, stood face to face, 
forgiving and forgiven. 

“Geoffrey, my boy ” 

“Uncle ” 

“I’ve come to stay with you, if you’ll have me. 
I’m a little tired of Manchester.” 

“We’ll all stay with you, if you’ll have us,” 
cried Renee’s eager voice. “Serves you right for 
describing an 'earthly paradise.’ Not but what 
this is a very good beginning!” 

She looked at the lovely scene, her eyes brim- 
ming, her face one flush of joyous welcome. 


346 


The Iron Stair 


good beginning!” Geoffrey’s voice thrilled. 
‘‘I should say it was! Yes, you shall all come to 
my ranch. There’s room enough — for all!” He 
glanced round. “Why — where is he?'' 

“Who?” asked Renee. 

“Chaffey, of course.” 

“Here, sir. Hope you’re well, sir? Pleased 
to meet you again, sir.” 

Geoffrey stared, then laughed, and seized the 
extended hand. 

^ * Another disguise ? ’ ’ 

“My steward,” said Aubrey Derringham 
gravely. “A very capable man, my dear Geof- 
frey, though this is his first appearance in that 
character.” 


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